Haibun

April 2014

Haibun

Life has many stories to tell

Aju Mukhopadhyay

We knew the life history of Mr. Richard Douglas, now ninety years old with a bulky body, well known as a drunkard. He came to Darjeeling in his youth just after marriage as manager of a Tea Garden owned by his masters, representatives of the last colonial heads of India. When he was in his heyday at the age of about 40 there arose a labor dispute which he handled with proficiency and was given double increment besides other honours. But the fire of dispute was not extinguished and there were, as usual, his rivals in the organization. That was colonial time. Once when the dispute was at its acme, he was ordered by his masters to ruthlessly suppress the rising heads. He did it by retrenching many and driving out many other poor and helpless families, without paying any compensation. One night when the desperate men conspired to take revenge, his guards failed or betrayed. The marauding janta entered his quarter and there was a distinct order heard, “Fire”! His wife fell to the gun. There was a total massacre.

As a reward for all his efforts he was retrenched and a new group of officers took over the garden management. Richard was crestfallen. He wasn’t rich and he hadn’t any issue. One of his friends who was transferred to Calcutta in the process of reorganization gave him his small bungalow to live. Richard has been from that time staying there and working wherever he was given a chance. It was time enough that he retired too. Even as a retired man he seemed to enjoy life.

time comes

when all actions seem inadequate

memories hunt

The atmospheric temperature of Darjeeling is steadily falling, as usual. All well-to-do outsiders come down to plains during this time. It is November and the hill station is already looking deserted. A few veterans like us who ventured to enjoy the clear sky in the hillside and occasional snowfall moved to this place at this time sitting in a small bar almost under the control of Douglas as he is their chief client. Outside is misty; powdery drops are scattered and penetrating chill is in the air. It is afternoon, towards the evening. This evening we have hosted a party. Douglas, already drunk, is happy hugging a bottle of champagne in his breast. With eyes red he looks at a distance for some time. Suddenly there is a groaning-gurgling sound from his throat. As we turn we find him muttering something inaudible in awe-struck voice. Suddenly he shouts, “No!” and falls down from his chair, unconscious.

life has

many stories to tell

who enjoys?

Runaway Son

Victor P. Gendrano

One dreary autumn morning I went to the YMCA for my twice-weekly exercise. There staring at me from the door was a big poster with a boy's picture. It is a wanted sign with the parents offering a monetary reward for the safe return of their 14-year old runaway boy.

I was so touched by this sad incident which kept haunting me that later that day, while waiting for lunch at my favorite fast food place, I wrote this poem at the back of the sales receipt. This is an example of a poem that wrote itself.

autumn chill

a broken bat

and busted ball

crowd his empty room

their runaway son

Plunging

Colin Will

Meet me where people leave their cars, the message read. Along the narrow road, with its collapsing verges, past a sad pile of plastic-wrapped sprays, most of the flowers gone. A roe deer, feeding in the field, doesn’t lift her head. We skirt the puddles along the track and enter the woods. Near the bay a double row of concrete tank obstacles. How long until they crumble? I won’t be here; nor will you.

The shore is near flat sandstone, ripple-marked and multi-layered, and the bay dotted with basalt boulders. The dried seaweed is spongy, easy to walk on. Here and there, sandy pockets. Now a steeper path to the headland, a volcanic plug which bears the name of a long-gone saint who may or may not have known this place. The sea sweeps in and out of an inlet which cuts the crag in two.

The rabbit-short grass is punctuated by spring flowers, quivering in the onshore breeze. Brambles and nettles edge the path, and I take your hand. Where are we going? Where is this going?

gannets spear the sea

making hardly any splash

rise, turn, dive again

First Spring

Adelaide B. Shaw

In the Swiss village the first stirrings of spring come early and fast. Tiny, yellow primroses sprout in the woods through patches of snow. Farmers begin their planting. Corn, rape, wheat. Every day, the chug of tractors . Swiss mist in the air, the liquid fertilizer made from manure, pungent and pervasive. Flower gardens shout spring with daffodils and tulips. Window boxes appear in full bloom like splashes of paint against the gray stone buildings.

the scent of lilacs

fading with dusk

thoughts of home

February 2014

Adelaide B. Shaw

A pause between storms. An anemic sun envelops the landscape promising nothing. The wind scolds as it whips through the pines speaking obscenities. There is no escape from this callous winter, this pitiless cold. I look for signs of spring but see only blue white days and sub-zero nights for

another month.

dinner by the fire

a taste of summer

in the burnt hotdog

Photos

Adelaide B. Shaw

Once in my parents' house, now in mine. I keep them, although most of the people in the photos are unknown to me. Great-grandparents, great uncles and great aunts, cousins. My parents' relatives, and, of course, mine. Young faces and old ones. In a few photos I recognize someone–my father or mother, an aunt or uncle, my grandparents-when they were young. The faces I don't know could be relations or strangers, friends of a family member who happened to be there. I'm tempted to save only a few that I recognize and toss the rest. I have boxes of my own family photos taking up space in my overcrowded closets. But, I don't toss any of them. Someday my children will have all my own photos along with this box. They will ask as I did, "Who are these people? Should we keep them?" I hope they do. Strangers though they are, they were part of our family, a family that is here now because of a family that was there then.

end of the year

for each ornament put back

a memory brought forth

Martha’s Tides

Claire Gardien

Martha had fled the ambient global warming and settled far off the urbanized world at the top of a building overlooking the sea shore. From her loggia far away, she could see the last lighthouse of the coast line and just at her feet down the path, the long Aquitaine sand stretch, the ocean mist, shallow ponds, shrimp fishermen, birds’ nests and surfers.

She would rejoice in spring. High tides the first years, it meant waves and wind and foam and life. Later on, with a number of gales continuously increasing, meteorologists spoke of unknown tidal ranges and of those undefined tempests that were to tear the sands off the coast line.

high tides ashore

the beach just a bread crumb

how to tame the erosion

Year after year, Martha’s coast line vanished.

sands engulfed

just a single fishing-boat on the ocean

Martha’s building

It was the place she had chosen far from the crowds. When the sand path leading to the shore disappeared, the lighthouse stood as her remnant life guide. It kept standing straight and she became the single fishing boat to keep afloat.

a sand reef

facing the Atlantic swells

Martha’s heartbeats

They all moved except Martha. The rough sea lashed the coast again and again, Martha did not yield, facing the sea and the infinite night and day. Fits of anger, spleen, outbursts of laughter, she remained stoic.

the sea, just the sea

to keep the souls awake

a cherry petal

She floats. She is a dyke, a pier, a lantern, a link for paradise blossoms.