WHR Autumn 2020 issue

Haibun

taking flight

David Jacobs

I was 28 before realising I was getting old. The chairman of the residents’ association had just asked me to become one of them. ‘Some of us are a bit long in the tooth. We need new blood’. That was like being propositioned by a vampire. I said I’d think about it, lying through my slightly less long-in-the-tooth teeth. There followed the aftershock that in 12 years time I’d be 40. And it seemed like no time at all. . . .

airport arrivals

my son reminds me

how time flies

cemetery

An instruction, painted on the tarmac reads: KEEP TWO METRES APART. Apart from what – that cheeky robin in the poplar, the grass beneath my feet, the air we breathe and hardly dare to, this squirrel looking for a treat, myself?

Spring time

an argument among the stones

worlds apart

work in progress

The toddler is throwing a tantrum. Dad looks perplexed. Mum offers a daisy, informing toddler ‘it’s a daisy’.

I’m leaning against a tree with a hollow that doesn’t quite fit my back.

death poem

still not able

to find the words

Her Infatuating Presence

Aju Mukhopadhyay

nearness

in consciousness

obviates presence

We see each other often but do not talk. Once or twice we talked for a short while. She’s always in my mind as she dwells in me. Suddenly she appeared but passed by quickly before my eyes overlaying all what I viewed in the desktop screen. Surprised, I turned my head and saw her vanishing shadow before my window without a footfall, without a shadow.

a look back

couldn’t find her

but she’s still there

Overwhelmed, I could not continue with my preoccupation. Putting the computer to power-off I came to the balcony and surveyed my surroundings. Nothing exceptional, no trace of her; but there was a mild perfume wafting in the air. I couldn’t remember how long ago, where we met last. Out of door, I rambled on the busy roads until they became less crowded. Alas! I didn’t keep her address anywhere. Her presence disturbed me. Back home J missed my dinner as all had retired to bed. And to my room I repaired to find it bolted from inside.

Being doubtful, if it was our home, I looked back and in front.

we don’t

always live at home but

away and elsewhere.

The Untouchable

Everyone of us was cautious as everyone else in other houses and countries; who knew where the arrow of corona was hissing to bite any moment! Everything was hush-hush; silently going out silently coming in; black-masked, spectacled, body covered unlike before; as if a spy, spying on each other.

a life away from life

relationship gets cracked

intimacy fades

When he was virus-positive he was taken out, we were isolated in the neighbourhood. Everyone looked at our dwelling we looked from corners of our window hole. All sides sealed. Fear was lurking back from all corners. It was a situation created deliberately as a way to precaution. Men and women were separated from men and women. Suspicion and scientific superstition reigned.

Are we sure that all the steps that are taken at each stage are accurate?

a dead body

was laying on the road untouched,

corona-virus ridden.

Little Enigmas

Vic Fleming

Crossword clue-writing may be the most demanding genre in all of literature. Consider the requisites: brevity, parallelism, nuanced consistency, indisputable accuracy. And more.

Twenty-three rules govern this discipline. Like is clued by like—adjectives by adjectives, transitive verbs by transitive verbs, exclamations by exclamations. An abbreviation or foreign word in a clue signals that some of the same is in the answer.

A clue generally must be substitutable for its answer—in a sentence, with no loss of meaning. A slangy clue indicates slang in the answer, from the same era in which the clue’s slang was commonplace.

A friend once approached me, convinced the published solution to his daily crossword contained an error. Presenting me with what he’d clipped from the paper, he argued that CRAFT should be where the solution showed GRAFT. The clue was “Plant union.”

My friend said he had worked at a plant. And that the union there was always concerned about its … craft. "The craft is what held union members together," he said.

I smiled. “Fusing two parts of a flower, or plant, is called grafting,” I said. “The result is called a graft.” Then I asked if he had noticed the puzzle’s hidden theme, wherein the author—in symmetrically placed answers that were clued independently—had wished himself a happy sixtieth birthday.

My friend looked at me blankly, exuding a sense of puzzlement. “There’s more going on in this puzzle than I thought there was.”

“Yep.”

they’re just puzzles, right?

words in grids with clues and stuff?

yes, that’s what they are

Anonymous

Pravat Kumar Padhy

The Greek Philosopher Aristotle says: “Man is by nature a social animal”. Staying in a gated community draws attention as elite occupants in big cities, but I have my own sour experience of socialization. When quarried about someone, the gentleman says, “Oh! Perhaps the man who stays on the 4th floor is a Lawyer as quite often he is seen with a black apron when he steps out”. “I do not know the man next neighbor, probably is a dentist as I could see once carrying some moulds of teeth”, wryly one resident points out, seeing my anxious face seemingly enquiring about something.

For some untimely emergency, the security person once voices out of enthusiasm, “You can go to the doctor who resides in the 7^th floor. I see him during a morning walk, probably he is retired as he continues to stroll even well past 9 am”. Seldom I could find someone introducing one with his first name. I remember, Anthony Giddens, a British Sociologist rightly opines, “Human actions and their reactions are the only reality and we cannot regard societies or systems as having an existence over and above individuals.”

artificial intelligence

I start cramming grammar

of machine learning

A Bridging-Dialect

I switch on to the channel that occasionally I see. It is a talk-show on the tribal language named ‘Ho’ of Odisha State of India. The learned participant narrates the folklore literature and recites melodiously a couple of stanza in between. I feel the discussion is like a long haibun interspersed with the rendition of verses. Curiously I concentrate on the translated version. I browse google to search the meaning of ‘Ho’ and I feel, it has been momentous for mankind to quest!

gene mapping—

the ripples in the water

from a point

The Game of Life

I used to play fun with my daughter, Rupa, quite often pretend that I lose the game. She aptly observes the trick of mine feigning to be on the losing side. Often it happens, even after a win in the game, she is not inclined to claim her own.

A long time has been passed since then. She feels pride for the things she owns in the right way and right spirit. Today I feel like the winner of the game.

early dawn—

the nestling flies away

leaving distance with me

Jokes Apart

Gautam Nadkarni

In my final year of college all my classmates, the ambitious ones among them at least, were moony eyed about their future careers.

One of my pals spoke devoutly about becoming a world famous heart surgeon while another fantasized about becoming a business tycoon with a private plane and a fleet of Rolls Royces. Yet another wished to take up law. Maybe even become a Supreme Court judge eventually. When it was my turn to talk I hesitated and then told them shyly that I wanted to be a humorist.

At first they were flabbergasted. Then alarmed. They exchanged worried looks. Then someone suggested a good therapist. Don't worry, th ey said comfortingly, he'll fix you up in a jiffy. A few electric shocks and meds will set things right. You'll be as good as new.

Another chappie, the more religious of the lot, prescribed a peace offering to the gods to the chant of certain mantras which would right the wrongs perpetuated by the position of Saturn in a certain house. He even studied my right palm intently and shook his onion sadly at first. Then he cheered up and pointed excitedly to my lifeline and the Mount of Luna and said all would be well. Nothing to fret about. All I had to do was break a few coconuts and feed a few Brahmins.

However, I was adamant. And stubborn as few mules could dream of being. I told the congregation intensely that ever since I'd read Mark Twain in my childhood and, more recently, Groucho Marx, I had always entertained ambitions of becoming a humorist.

For some obscure reason this had them grinning hugely and a wag dismissed me as being tight as an owl. Mark twain, in deed! Groucho Marx, hah! Someone even asked me whether I'd been having a few behind their backs and there were loud guffaws and much slapping of thighs.

And I hadn't even cracked a joke yet.

house full...

the new stand-up comedian

lays an egg

The Better Half

I have always been in favour of women's liberation and equal rights for ladies ever since I can remember. The way women were treated like slaves was enough to disgust a guy. When I mentioned this to my spouse she stifled a yawn and said, Yes dear.

I decided that it was high time the women of the house were made aware of the injustices they'd had to endure. For centuries. So I herded together and informed the better half and my daughter how grossly unfair the system had been to t hem. Germaine Greer and Gloria Steinem had fought tooth and claw for the cause, I said through gritted teeth. Bra burning takes guts. I suggested they read The Female Eunuch for their edification.

Do you know, I asked them with a raised index finger, that women were not even allowed to vote. Now, I said, pontificating, females had not only the right to vote at every state level poll they could also stand for election and participate in governing the nation. How about that! They were no longer mere sex objects to be used by men and discarded, I said grandly.

My wife and daughter both stretched and yawned in unison and my life partner handed me a broom while indicating the living room floor with a sweeping gesture.

"And after you're through dusting the house be so kind as to wash yesterday's dishes. They just keep piling up in the kitchen sink. Then there's the laundry to be done. There's a dear."

Now as I do the furniture in the drawing room with an ache in the lower regions of the back and a crick in the neck which acts up every time I bend I am filled with the deepest misgivings. Yes, I had touched upon freedom from slavery and women's suffrage, no doubt. I had objected severely to ladies being used as sex objects too, I thought grumpily. But whoever mentioned household chores

women's forum...

all the menfolk discussing

the speaker's figure

Mellow Drama

When my friend Rajesh caught me in a corner at a party and whispered something hoarsely to me I told him to speak up.

"For heaven's sake!" he said, shushing me with gestures of his rather large hands. "This is private and confidential."

I rolled my eyes skyward for I knew what was coming.

"I say, how does one go about proposing to a girl?" he asked. "I've spent sleepless nights thinking of ways but it's no use."

When I suggested getting down on one knee, holding her hand and asking her to be his he dismissed it with a snort. He said it had to be original. Perhaps even unique. The girl in question was a novelist, he said. Always on the lookout for new plots. With a revulsion for anything in the nature of a cliche.

I pondered on it for a whole minute before I spoke. I asked him whether he could sing. If he could I recommended bursting into song and laying bare his heart. It was foolproof, I said. Always worked in the movies. Even before the lyric was over she would fall all over him. But he shook his head after mulling it over. No, he couldn't sing. The last time he sang in the bath his mother thought somebody had had a frightful accident and was screaming in agony. Pretty peeved she had been when he appeared before her, unscathed. So I let that drop. Although I still thought it a sound idea.

Then I suggested reading out a soliloquy from Romeo and Juliet. That should impress her. He would have her eating out of his hands. All he had to do was memorize part of the famous balcony scene dialogue. But I cautioned him to concentrate on Romeo's words and give Juliet's a miss. Otherwise there could be complications. He said he'd do his best and departed on his mission. The next I heard from him was when he came over to present me with a wedding invitation card.

So I finally found my true calling in life. I have set up shop as a counselor on affairs of the heart. And let me tell you I make more money than a cardiac surgeon. All you need is a good imagination and a head planted firmly on your shoulder

The last client for instance proposed marriage to his girl at a funeral parlour, just as I suggested. Now the couple are simply dying to get married.

theater...

the director says my sneeze

is not in the script.

Hibernating

Adelaide B. Shaw

In the grip of a week -long cold spell. I want to get out. I need to get out.

Gasping for breath the instant I open the door. A sudden tightness in my chest. The brick path leading to the garage is slick with ice.

sun on the rocker

a week-old newspaper

slipping from my hands

Blackie

One day Grandpa brings home a small black dog. We go for the obvious and name him Blackie. The little dog wanders between my grandparents flat on the first floor, our flat on the second floor and the yard. Sometimes he escapes the yard, but always comes back.

One morning, Grandpa tosses Blackie into the cellar and locks the door. Soon, men arrive wearing heavy clothing and thick gloves. They go down the cellar carrying a metal cage and come up with Blackie in it. He growls, snarls, bares his teeth. He drools, a foamy bubbly drool. Claws at the cage. Barks violently. The cage is put in a van with a double lock. Blackie’s barking and snarling continue as the van drives away.

full moon

above my head

grasping shadows

One Day in LA

The day is overcast and cool, a welcome change after four days of sun, sun, sun and high heat. I am back in Los Angeles after twenty years. The plan is to drive west to the Pacific Ocean. We start out at 10:00 a.m. Our route takes us to Hollywood and Highland, the entertainment center for Los Angeles, replacing Hollywood and Vine as the mecca for tourists.

Lines for movies, lines for coffee, lines for trendy shops, lines to cross the street, lines with no beginning or end. Weaving between the lines — people sauntering, hurrying, standing still to pose and gawk. A conglomeration of people. A Bruegel painting waiting to be put on canvas. Glamour and glitz.

Hollywood Boulevard

forward “unto the breech”

to shoot a selfie

At La Brea we turn left, down one block, turn right. The Sunset Strip. The place to be at night. Comedy clubs, live music, restaurants, cafes, shops, hotels, apartment buildings, people. Always people, day and night.

We pass Whisky-A-Go-Go. A ghost memory from younger days, dark and sleeping on a Saturday morning.

come do the twist

cringing

at the thought

My eyes keep looking up, above the buildings.

oversized billboards

tinsel town

in your face

What to see, where to go, what to buy. Signs that need no glasses to read. We reach Sierra Drive, leaving Los Angeles and enter Beverly Hills. Manicured and quiet. Mansions behind walls and high shrubbery, with the occasional glimpse of a house or garden. One hundred year old palm trees along the streets. No walkers. No parked cars, except for one. A garishly painted vehicle with a young man standing near it, waving and calling.

movie stars’ homes

get close and personal

with dots on a map

We continue along Sunset through Westwood, Brentwood, Pacific Palisades and reach Highway 1 and what I came to see . . . the Pacific Ocean.

low clouds

slate gray waves

shatter on the beach

surfs up!

Newton’s law proven

with a splash

Eric Chandler

How many days in a row has the sun risen into a clear blue sky? The streak’s getting pretty long. The wind stacked the pack ice up at the fond du lac. The yellow sun sends a yellow stripe across the open water and it hits the shelf of ice and disperses. Brilliant sparkles randomly dot the expanse as the shards reflect the sun. My legs are rusty.

The grass and mud are

exposed. But they are not free.

Winter still holds on.

***

This is the spring that you forget exists. You come out of winter and feel like forty degrees is the heart of summer. Then you readjust. And the same forty degrees feels cold. And the wind blows over the lake from the east. And the skies fill with overcast. And you know you have to put on winter gear for your long run. But you’re smart, so you head off up the Old Shore Road, the extension of Superior Street to the east. It’s been repaved. Smooth and isolated. I think I saw one car. Go into the teeth of the wind first so that you’re like a sail on the way home.

It’s a long run so

you put the wind at your back

at the turn and fly.

Leo gets weird when we go for a run on the Lake walk. He seems to think of it as a chore to be on a leash on the pavement. He hangs back all the way out and pulls hard to get home. I try to give him as much time as I can off the leash. We always head down from that first park bench after exiting under the railroad tunnel by the Holiday Station. We go down to the Endion Ledges. They’re exposed now. He runs free for a little bit on the rocks. Rolls on his back. His signature move. Then I tie him up again as we go in front of the fancy town homes. We run past Scott Anderson’s plaque until the satellites say I’ve gone at least far enough to get a four-miler out of the turnaround. Leo knows we’re headed back and pulls ahead. He fully expresses himself. There is no deceit.

The ledges are out.

The ice blurs the line between

the lake and the shore.

***

For a change, I ran down York and when I got to the waterfront I turned to the left. To the East. I dodged pedestrians and found my way out to a park that was a long tunnel of shade made by maple trees. The cobblestones and pavers had big shapes of maple leaves under the trees themselves. I ran through the tunnel and along the water of Lake Ontario. There was a sailing regatta, blistering white in the afternoon sun. A lot like Duluth in that it’s a working waterfront. Grain elevators. Cranes and derricks. I followed a path made for bikes into the harsh light and returned along the same path, into the shade of the maples. It’s Canada after all.

And along a brook, as I returned to the maples, there was a poem hanging on a tree. Well, it was more like a motivational statement, but still weird enough to be cool.

The leaves gave me shade

with unique palmately veined

blades. I like maples.

* **

Highs and lows. Googled a town I haven’t been in since 1990 or so. Found my way to the Rio Grande. Stood there after plunging through the cottonwoods. Canada geese paddled across the river. Past some ponds on the path. Ducks and waterfowl in the high desert. Weird. Some local kids on mountain bikes as I got closer to the old Highway 66. Novices smiling. Bosque Youth Conservation Corps sign. I was happy. Ran down the busy street to Old Albuquerque. San Felipe de Neri church. “Guarded” by two replica Confederate cannons from the Civil War. Buried near the church so the Union wouldn’t get them. Guy who buried them came back to unbury them after the war. Not sure what the point was. Guy playing a pan flute near the plaza of the old city. Nearly killed by a woman pulling out of a parking lot. Huge black SUV and the woman shouting “sorry sorry sorry” at my back as I ran down the sidewalk from dodging her into the street.

Small adventures are

for me. I ran on the banks

of the Rio Grande.