haibun,august2009

Haibun

by Marie Shimane, Japan

As a child, I remember going to the cemetery with my Nana. Was it a weekly ritual for her, for us? I don't quite know but it must have been often that we went to Calvary Cemetery in Brooklyn. We took the bus, I guess--or buses, more likely. If my recall of these outings is so faulty, why is the memory so precious after more than 50 years? Because this was my time with Nana and, also because, outside the cemetery gate stood the hot dog man with his cart waiting for us. I remember Nana teaching me the prayers for the dead and I remember those hot dogs.

childhood alive

with cemetery visits

learning to believe

Today I sat in another cemetery far from Brooklyn under a beautiful May sky, looking out at tombstones a bit different from those of my childhood with names carved on them in Chinese characters. There are flowers, of course, and trees and, for Japan, it is a rather large place. The only difference is the scent of incense in the air--the same scent that rises from the incense that my husband offers in front of our daughter's picture at home. I sat on a marble slab that fronted the building housing Kumiko's urn--waiting with my suitcase to bring her home in.

sitting on cold marble

in the tombstone air

fragrant with incense

In two months' time, four years will have passed since she died and, for whatever reason, her urn has been in a room in this public cemetery. The employee comes with his keys and official papers are exchanged. The locker-like box is opened and there is the white damask-covered urn with her name written on it.

four years later

on the urn's white damask cover

our daughter's name

I sit now on the train with the urn in the suitcase by my seat. Today begins a five-day holiday in Japan called Golden Week when families, living afar, return to their hometown.

the train ride home

the first day of Golden Week

keeping the urn close

Kumiko is returning also. Her father has prepared the alcove in the tatami room to receive her urn. He will light the incense; the sun will begin to set here as in the cemetery in Choshi where she will be interred.

for a while the urn

stays in the tokonoma

incense fills the house

We'll go to Choshi often; it's an old habit learned in childhood. I won't be holding Nana's hand or watching for the cart of the hot dog man. But we will pray for Kumiko and all our loving dead who, in the belief of old, live once again when we remember them.

in a cemetery

overlooking the Pacific

remembering

Haibun

Anon

I came across this scene while walking with the dog around our local pond:

I had the distinct impression of entering into a quiet temple, the birds and the wind respectfully still, punctuated only by a chorus of frogs reciting their secret mantra. Not yet noon, the sun shone from the east through leafy branches, creating a dappled green shade along the path.

The pond itself lay still as a mirror, lilies and reeds comprising an ornate frame. A family of ducks observed our approach.

the elder meditates

in the temple of trees

frogs chant

Though we walked as quietly as ghosts, I was a little embarrassed at our sudden intrusion; I cleared my throat politely just before we passed, and with a curt nod, quickly turned my face away. I don't know if the lady acknowledged us our not.

Little Dottie made no note of the entire affair; she was totally involved in the moment, experiencing all her senses. Silly little Buddha..

Haibun

By Tad I.Wojnicki, Taiwan

Downtown Eats

Waiters drag chairs and tables out, setting up alfresco eats. They click the umbrellas open, then jingle spoons, forks, and knives. Tablecloths catch the bittersweet breeze. Men in herringbone suits and loud ties shoot the breeze under multi-colored parasols, fussing over flambes. Words like “equity,” “chip,” and “payoff” fly about. They linger, sucking chilled sauvignon blanc. Women drop their gym routines, slip into sexy getups, and perch in their chairs, poking greens with forks. Soon they’ll hit the Boutique Row.

reek of seaweed --

in the creeping fog

outdoor art show

The Salinas Valley, now dubbing itself Steinbeck Country, has lately birthed adequate wines to go with the freshest-of-the-fresh veggies. From the newsstand, the front pages scream of school shootings, drug busts, and kidnappings, but who cares? No worry eats the downtown eaters.

valleywide skies

coursed by clouds---

grapes on breath

Fruitflesh

Fremont Peak and Mount Toro rise over the Salinas Valley like two breasts of a feeding mother--warding off the chills, keeping the heat, juicing up grapes, brightening berries, fleshing out watermelons, and letting folks hear the beat. They call the twin mountains “mamas,” or suckables. When the earthquake hits, the peaks heave like the chest of a living, breathing being.

valley fruit

sinking my teeth

I draw blood