Haibun

WHR December 2019

Haibun

Ed Bremson

I don't know how old I was when mama and I had to go to Atlanta. I think we took the train, but I know we flew back, because I remember we had to run to catch the plane, which was waiting for us on the runway, with its propellers very loud, the turbulence of hot wind, and mama throwing up before we got there.

flying home...

the baby expected

no longer

Carmela Marino

It is Saturday at the end of winter. A child’s voice runs and runs through the small alleys in the village. It echoes a soft jingling of few coins inside the packet.

Suddenly I hear my name’s echo blend with the fragrance of bread just taken out of the oven, of tomatoes and basil.

A shawl on the head, suddenly comes out of a window a wrinkled smile. It’s grandma. She waves at me to come up. I don’t need to be told twice. Two by two I go up the steps, my mouth already savouring under the teeth grandma’s fragrant pizza.

dreams in the pocket…

where dawn is breaking

grandma’s voice

Far away a donkey’s bray, now is near, here is a hat getting closer, with steps, by now slow but sure of oneself, and in those tired eyes, (Oh how much they have seen!), it is grandpa coming back from the farm.

I run towards him. He still has the smell of the land, having on his face the reflection of the sunset, on his feet heavy boots covered with mud, sign of a hard working day, and those callous hands.

He stretch’s out one arm and, smiling, he gives me a bucket filled with milk from his two sheep and a basket of vegetables

milky moon…

sheep’s smell

on grandpa

Ceaseless strokes from the bell tower. It’s getting dark, all are near the fireplace, and all around grandpa’s story in black and white, of the war and hunger, with the log burning down…

It is late but before going to sleep, I look out of the window. Here on the mountain I feel closer to the moon and stars.

I take in the starry night and count my dreams, one by one. I’m waiting for that moon to come out from the mountain top. Then, slowly it is flowing from roof to roof up to me.

The moonlight lightens the emptiness of many vacant houses and highlights my face.

grandma’s head down

on knitting needles…

socks ready

I look as far as the sea. I can’t hear seagulls’ screech but can imagine it. Within myself I think, “Unfortunately I will have to leave all of it, but nothing will uproot this deep root.”

The departure day has arrived. I zip my luggage with all his scent, dawns and sunsets, my mountain’s echo, the roar of the river down there that flows and flows without stopping.

I look at mom. In a tear is reflected the entire sky. With my heart in my throat and after a strong hug, my steps move away.

the last curve…

the sunset is moving away

in the rear-view mirror

Gheorghe Mihalache

Honey Valley

I left the blue sea behind and headed north. The October sun`s rays were warming me in the back. I do not know if in three days we will find the same gentle sun. I left the national

road and entered a county road with villages occupied by Lipovian Russians.

I still smelt the lime forest after passing by the spring, borrowed from the autumn palette specific colors.

I passed Nifon and reached the Honey Valley, on a forest road. I wondered where this name came from. Did the milk and honey run here or did the beekeepers come with their beehives?

The forest welcomes me with the carpet of leaves that I walk with ropes so as not to break the last splashes of life. From place to place, in the shade of the trees that change their color depending on the position of the sun, I see colored mushrooms appearing from beneath the layer of leaves. I am not the only one who endeavors not to destroy the beauty of these places.

The sun and the colors of the leaves, at the end of October, challenge me to return as soon as possible.

Autumn rust—

many leafy trees

traveler on the road

David Jacobs

Us

We’re here again - us, that is - This time it’s Dad - Next time it’s one of us, says one of us - So we really must, says another one of us – And this time I think we really will - Or really must.

winter winds

all the graves

at different angles

‘It is better to have lived one day as a tiger than a thousand years as a sheep’ (Tibetan Proverb)

I wouldn’t know. I don’t think I’ve done either. The proverb, imprinted on a kaleidoscopic tooth bearing tiger, hangs above our cloakroom toilet, as it has done for the past twenty years, goading me to make a start on option 1 with barely 931 years to go on option 2.

And yes, of course I understand these things are not meant to be taken too literally.

thousandth year

I add loo paper

to the shopping list

local

Our cemetery’s a special place. Commuters use it as a short cut, and they’re more than welcome. But I guess not many read, or even see, the haiku posted on the notice board and bearing the author’s name.

Here’s one anyway:

early crocus

I decide the location

of my ashes

Milorad Ivankovic

Himalaya

Himalaya “the abode of eternal snow” is believed to be the dwelling-place of Lord Shiva, one of the characters of the Hindu holy trinity, viz. Brahma the creator, Vishnu the sustainer, and Shiva the destroyer of the universe.

According to Buddhist tradition, in the place called Lumbini at the slopes of the great Himalaya, in present-day Nepal, eastward of Kapilavastu the ancient capital of the Shakya-clan, Queen Maya the wife of king Suddhodana gave birth to the prince Siddhartha Gautama later known as the Buddha. Siddhartha lived in the luxury of king’s palace, enjoying all the princely privileges. But on his first encounter with the outside world, he realized that “all existence is full of suffering”. He left the palace for the life of a wandering ascetic, begging for alms in the street. However, extreme asceticism did not bring him the peace of mind. Having become starved after 40 days of rigorous fasting, Siddhartha seated under the sacred fig tree suddenly discovered his own way to liberation from earthly suffering.

During the last century many brave individuals have been coming to meet face to face the great Himalaya in order to find their way to liberation. Some of them indeed find liberation from their earthy life forever, leaving their corpses frozen in the never-leaving ice and snow of the mountain.

Himalaya –

even Lord Shiva lost

his sandals there

Rajasthan

India is more than just a country, actually it is a subcontinent in itself. India or Bharat is a land of great diversity, both in landscape and in population. There is a range of mountains with the highest elevations on earth called Himālaya (literally hima “snow” related to Latin hiems “winter” + ālaya “abode”, viz. “the abode of eternal snow”) bounding India on the north, in opposition to the warmest places down south, the other three sides being encompassed by the Arabian Sea and Indian Ocean.

With its population of more than one billion souls, and over 1650 spoken languages and dialects in use, India is renowned as the land of 330 million deities. The ancient Hindus developed a doctrine of so many gods as to match the multiplicity of phenomena in the universe. As Lord Krishna has revealed in the Bhagavad Gita (viz.“the Song of the Lord” , the most influential theistic Hindu scripture), living beings are not apart from God, since He lives in each and every one of them in the form of atman “soul, self”, for each living being is a unique manifestation of God. In ancient times it was believed that there were 330 million living beings on earth, whence the actual number of deities represented by each living soul.

Consequently, the ancient tradition called bhakti viz. “devotion to a personal god” (also known as ishta-devata “the worship of a chosen deity”) prompted every devotee to develop a personal relationship with a deity, since the supreme transcendental being has no finite form, hence inaccessible to devotion. Regardless of the number of deities, however, the prevailing practice among Hindus is the worship of the Trimurti or the Holy Trinity, viz. three chief deities, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, and of their avatāras viz. “descents from heaven into their material appearances (incarnations) on earth”, especially of Lord Krishna (analogous to Jesus in Christian tradition).

The Hindus have built innumerable temples for the devotees to worship their gods. It would require years of permanent pilgrimage in order to visit and view the most of them, to name it just a few, the Brahma temple in Pushkar; Shrinathji Temple (devoted to Lord Krishna) in Nathdwara; The Surya (viz. Sun) Temple, Goddess Kali Temple and Sachiya Mata Temple

in Osian, in the state of Rajasthan (viz. “Land of Kings” the largest Indian state by area). For the list of the Hindu holy places are virtually inexhaustible for anyone journeying India.

Rajasthan –

an old bus full of blowflies

at 50.8 ° C

Aju Mukhopadhyay

In Quest of the land of Poets

danger may come

from the least expected zone-

always alert

While going from London via Oxenholme, I had lesser trouble but while coming back from Windermere I had enough. I had to change trains five times due to misinformation and uncertainty about the movement of trains as some work was going on in the tracks, they said. I was told that such things happened often. Such things are usually imponderable in a developed country where only disciplined services are expected. But so many things really happen everywhere we don’t know beyond the publicity buzz by the television channels or the other media.

when machine fails

man comes forward to help-

it is humane

The compensating fact was that the people were friendly. They helped. I reached London City Airport only 15 minutes prior to the scheduled departure time of the flight to Antwerp, mainly because of this hazardous running of the trains. On explaining the situation to the authorities, I was allowed, as a special case, to run through the small runway and get help to get into the plane, even without the usual security check. They were inwardly convinced, I believe, that I was a poet, one of the younger friends of Wordsworth, or who knows, if I was not once his close friend, indulged by Dorothy to be her friend too, reborn again to visit their home and hearth! The small plane was roaring with running engine, ready to run and fly. As I hopped in helped by fellow passengers, it began its journey instantly. Few pairs of eyes brushed my face; I must have already been excused for the delay. The plane was waiting as a matter of extreme courtesy. I was certainly grateful to all, more to the Divine, the cause of all that happens.

difficulties

are forgotten when in

ecstatic mood

In a few minutes, I felt calm and quiet. The small plane like a drone moved through the hazy sky finding its familiar pathways, as I was already moving through the dales of the Windermere side by side with Wordsworth and Coleridge. Beautiful Dorothy too gave me company. We were walking and breathing; inhaling and exhaling the air flowing through the lake, hills and space; caressing us, inspiring us infinitely.

Excuse me, it might not be just a hoax. I still feel that I’m so walking! We may do and enjoy many things in different planes which we cannot or do not venture to do before your eyes. Don’t you sometimes see things beyond what you cannot see with fleshy eyes! While dwelling on the lake I suddenly remember an utterance by an Indian professor, Dr. Santosh Batabyal. I was hearing him, long past now, in a classroom situation. While lecturing on Coleridge he suddenly said in a high-pitched voice, the context I do not remember, “If ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ was valued at five pounds only, what was the value of the whole British Empire?”

higher the level of culture

greater is the value of a poet

than the king

Great Coleridge was the closest friend of Wordsworth as the two lakeists, invariably with Dorothy with them, dwelt in the ambience of the lakes. I still feel the warmth of their presence and the strange sweetness of the outburst of the professor. My journey through the Lake District and the return was joyous in the company of William, Samuel and Dorothy. It was a solitary travel, nostalgic. It was a venture to be in the company of the poets who still live and appear, maybe, in the solitude of the night by the window side of a room you may be in and see them perchance.

a memoir-

a poetic travel

with the poets

Adelaide B. Shaw

A Walk in the Rain

In spite of the weather forecast we continue as planned. A trek in a nature preserve, outfitted with boots, brimmed hats, slickers, walking sticks. We choose one of several trails.

a misty view

hand in hand we walk

the years

The birds and insects are silent. Only the squish of our boots and the rain on trees, on the ground, on layers of decaying leaves. The melody changes as the rain subsides and increases.

late night radio

the same love song

with variations

Puddles form in low places and pools collect on large leaves and in a hollowed out tree where woodpeckers have been at work. In some spots, where the growth above us is thick, branches overlap to create a sheltering dry spot. We keep the silence, the mood expressed in our eyes, our smiles, our thoughts.

steady rain

washing away

the day’s debris

Rationing

Days of high heat. No rain in weeks. None forecast. Must conserve our well water.

The garden dries out; grass goes brown. We wash at the bathroom sink, no showers. Use ice sparingly. Use what remains of the water in the rain barrels for flushing and to keep alive a few plants on the porch.

dripping sweat

a nearly melted ice cube

for the marigolds