Haibun, January 2014

January 2014

WHR Haibun, Winter 2014

Anita Virgil

ROBINSON CRUSOE & CO.

Seals splash in morning sunlight. That rundown cottage on the promontory in Maine faces England. Waves pound the rocks. First day there, beside the cottage, a whole field of blueberries surrounded by trees. In a sudden rush of fantasy, of total release from city life -- from the ad agencies, art directors, wearing only cut-off jeans tied with a piece of clothesline, a kitchen knife stuck in your ‘belt’ and boat mocs, and clutching your eyeglass case, you head out to conquer the blueberries. Before the nooks of the cottage have been explored or books or clothes unpacked, you return. In the little kitchen you spill your eyeglass case full of berries into a bowl and, like a little boy, rush right back out into the breezy sunlit afternoon. “Gonna go get more berries.” Outdoors at the salt-bleached picnic table, evening sun glittering on the ocean , we three eat the whole warm blueberry pie for our dinner. An old glass tumbler from the musty cupboard worked fine for a rolling pin.

Next afternoon we go clam-digging. Buckets in hand we pick our way along the huge black spray-wet boulders down to a little cove. Pressing the sand with a foot here, there, suddenly a squirt of seawater shoots up. Clam below! Our first – and soon, many more. Those and tiny periwinkles broiled for dinner, drenched in butter and garlic, breadcrumbs and oregano.

On a day of uncertain light we make the trek once more to the cove, single file along the boulders. This time, not much luck. Only a few clams. Looking up from the sand, we see the ocean has turned a fuzzy gray. Sea fog coming towards us.

Climbing up the steep path, in no time we are engulfed, can no longer see each other. That quickly, so terrifyingly, crawls this fog! Stepping cautiously, feeling our chilly way, calling out anxiously to each other, even our voices muffled, we finally make it up the slick rocks to the blueberry field, to the blur that must be the cottage.

sea fog…

I cannot even find

yesterday’s trees

Haiku: Anita Virgil

Photograph: © Chad Gurchinoff

Clarity in the Fog

Vidur Jyoti

Slowly and slowly the fog is descending on my path today. How beautiful! There is a grey shroud enveloping the entire stretch of the road. All milestones, landmarks, crossings and turnings are slowly dissolving into a uniform invisibility. What a relief! Now I shall not have to look for them anymore. I am on the path and it will now itself take me to my destination wherever it is.

Is it the moon or the infant sun far above in the sky? My destination and my path too have become one. I have to reach there. How will I know? On reaching there who will know and what?

An urgency appears in the breathing. Wanting to go past all landmarks, signposts, crossings and turnings before the fog clears and milestones appear again, I increase my pace.

dew drops

on my nasturtiums

sparkling pearls

cracking nuts

chattering in the ficus

a squirrel

The Oasis

Ronny Noor

The placid resaca is rippling along in the summer breeze under a sky of the clearest blue. A reminder of the once mighty Rio Grande , which has staked new courses in its lifetime, this body of water is older than any living human being or the century-old palm trees flanking its shores. Now home to fish and birds, it is a favorite haunt of anglers and birdwatchers. While the anglers sit still under flying gulls, holding their fishing rods over water, the birdwatchers are loitering about in shorts and flip-flops, binoculars stuck to their eyes or hung around their necks. Their faces beam as the grackles burst out of palm fronds and take wing into the air, flying out of sight wheeling to the left. Their fingers point to a mottled duck floating down without a care near the water’s edge, not far from where a heron is walking like an elegant lady. A long limousine pulls up on the side of the road and out pours a wedding party in a flourish of white gowns and black suits, hurrying to the shore for a glimpse of the birds in the afternoon glow.

between the birds

in the camera

bride and groom

The Angler*

Ronny Noor

Settling in the shade of the concert hall behind which the late summer sun is taking a plunge, I pry off my shoes and cast my fishing rod in the resaca. Two mottled ducks to my left rise to their feet unwinding their necks and all of a sudden jump into the water flapping their wings. Then they head for the far shore, their beaks dipping and emerging, plying like needles as if stitching the two shores together. Up above, a plane is vanishing behind the clouds, leaving a white trail that I can trace across the blue heavens when a tug in my hand makes me reel in the bass.

taking the old road

so strange after the rain

between green grasses

*Dedicated to Jerry Jamar

Surprises

Adelaide B. Shaw

The first spring in our new home. Still making discoveries. A white dogwood deep in the woods in full bloom; red crocus on a bank; a pile of broken glass under the potting shed.

waking at dawn–

a pink and blue sky

before the rain

Sunday

Adelaide B. Shaw

A balmy day. Not too warm and no humidity. Like a small inheritance from a stingy relative, longingly wished for but never remotely expected.

In the pines, the cicadas’ song coming in waves. The quick cheep, cheep of an unseen cardinal. Further away, the cooing of doves. In the maple a soft rustling of leaves as squirrels chase each other.

half asleep

in the swaying hammock

supper on hold

Migraine

Adelaide B. Shaw

It comes on quickly. Pain above my eyes. Intense. Sharp. Carving my head into splinters. Producing nausea. Swallow a couple of pills. Retreat to a darkened room, a cold cloth on my forehead. Breathe. Concentrate on nothing else. Just breathe.

shooting stars

watching with held breath

I forget to wish