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World Haiku Review, Volume 6, Issue 4, October 2008
Haibun
An Autumn Note
By Kala Ramesh
One Spring Day at twilight, I was walking down the hill path with an elderly gentleman, shall I call him . . . my poet friend, my springboard . . . He is an old acquaintance of mine, and we would wave or smile at each other on our usual evening walk, around the hill that we share with Pune university. The day before yesterday, I saw him watering the trees on the hill—Pune is really dry now and nearing summer it gets worse.
I offered to help water the young saplings that we had planted a year back, aiming for a green hill. As I was talking to him about what makes or breaks a haiku, he said, "Have you read Iqbal, the poet philosopher of Pakistan? I know him from the time when India and Pakistan were one." With an impeccable Urdu pronunciation and a natural throw of his head, his hands and his voice, he recited the poem and even translated it for me.
Beauty asks of Almighty, why didn't you make me eternal? To which Almighty answers that life is a movie theatre, and it has to move on—the truth of evolution. The moon hearing this, repeats it to the morning star, and the morning star tells it to the dewdrop, which in turn whispers it to a flower and the flower on hearing it, dies.
rath ki rani . . .
her fragrance rides
the breeze
The next evening, on my entering the gate to the university hill I heard my poet-friend say that there would be no watering the saplings today, as there was no water in the tank . . . so walking up the hill he asked, "Do you know why a flower has petals?" He said, with a twinkle in his eyes, "Think, and think". Then smilingly said that he would recite Ghalib for me, a very delicate poem on why flowers have petals.
The bulbul —India's nightingale— was wailing loudly for spring blossoms. Even the plants far away could hear it, for the bulbul's wail almost filled the cosmic space. The buds, feeling heart-broken, split into petals.
Wah! Is all I could muster . . .
Last evening, after half an hour of watering, we took a small break, and I recited a haiku I had written to my poet-friend
darting fish-like . . .
seven months of life
in my womb
He spontaneously quoted Ghalib in chaste Urdu . . . his clear voice rising above the birdcalls. He said, that the wind as you know is flirtatious, here and there, touching, feeling everything as it moves. One morning the wind sees a beautiful blossom and goes toward her, attracted by her beauty, he goes deeper into her solitude and as the wind whizzes past, the blossom elated, in full fragrance, proclaims to the world at large that she has lost her virginity to the wind.
My poet-friend continues with Ghalib . . .
My beloved promised that she would come, the news made me so joyous, given that moment I would have happily died, but deep within my heart, something told me that ultimately she won't come, and that is the reason why you see me alive today …
howling wind—
his bamboo flute holds
an autumn note
Footnotes:
rath ki rani - night queen - a beautiful flower which blooms during the night and dies at day-break.
autumn note - in my view means a musical note, which is perfect in its musical quality and in its emotional content.
The Sailing Boat
By Kala Ramesh
"The Grand Hyatt", my friend had said.
I got into a cab and requested the driver to take me to The Grand Hyatt.
"kya, giraande hyate?" asked the driver in strong Hindi accent. Wading through the morning traffic and waiting indefinitely at the signals- I finally entered the imposing lobby.
My friend and his fiancé were waiting for me to join them for breakfast. He said he never knew India could be like this?
"This is America", he said. "Where is the killing heat, the crowds, the buffaloes?"
We re-turn a decade or two later, our roots all muddled up.
He said his friends rave about India.
But India of the five star hotel culture and pure drinking water…they do not see the squalor, do not travel by trains and . . .
"We are the only ones dressed like this", he said.
He was in a kurta churidaar, on his neck a silver chain with an AUM pendent dangling.
"No one here dresses like this! Plus, where is the cultural India my mom always talks about?"
India is this and that I begin to say, again India is not this and not that I want to say. . . but stopped.
For I realised that self-discovery is a slow process and that is the only way one could see the soul of this ancient but pulsating country.
tranquillity . . .
small fish dart around
the sailing boat
Note:
' Self ' -
To be an Indian it is not necessary to visit a Shiva or a Vishnu temple or talk chaste Hindi or Tamil. What is needed is to become one with your inner Self… to respect all living beings. That Indian-ness which needn't be Indian at all?
A Stigma
By Cindy Bell
"There's a stigma attached to it." Someone told me.
cluttered home --
opening my door to the
brilliance of fog
I admit to the hesitation, the pause in consideration in every
conversation where the topic is broached. The questions are always
the same. Should I tell them? Will they understand?
bald eagle circles over --
wind through the spruce branches,
warmth on my skin
Some don't understand. "My mom's on anti-depressants. Now she can't tell me not to smoke. It's the same damn thing. We're both relying on a substance to lift our mood." A former roommate said, his contempt overwhelming. He probably would've done better to try the anti-depressants.
cotton whisps falling --
a tiny orange spider
tickles my hand
The depression would have eventually consumed me -- before the words came out, the creative flow stifled as if in a bottle neck with only the occasional word squeezing it's way out, furiously scribbled onto paper, then me staring blankly, without the words to surround it with, without any way to develop it.
magnificent syllables!.. pouring out
thrill of life ... returns
~ Cindy Bell
Layers Unfathomable:
the scratch of
pen on paper --
it all adds up
I find myself astonished at the complexity of our past with such a variety of Hominines building up to the present and so many other species with us on this journey. It feels unfathomable like building blocks of a greater whole: us, the earth, and the rest of our solar system just atoms, another layer in an infinite fabric. How many layers will we glimpse in our lifetime? Or our grand children's?
The millennia unfolds before us, only to fold us back into their past.
buzz of a
fly in the window --
nightfall
Haibun Pays
By Cindy Bell
I've recently started looking into submitting my Haibun for
publication. I found out what I've always known - it pays to write Haibun. One online journal pays $2.00 per piece, others pay nothing. But the writing of Haibun pays in so many ways currency can't account for. Direct to my heart, straight to my soul.
so many words! ... scratching across
the pages ... feeling alive
In the quiet moments, can I even begin to explain what is lost in my life when I am unable to write? Can I articulate what is taken away? It's what I'm inevitably searching for, reaching, feeling out, groping at - sometimes in the dark. All those unsettled parts of my heart.
Cozumel Market
By Bruce Ross
Twenty years ago I learned to free dive off the sleepy island. Now the tour boat dock leads to a super mall. The old market seems almost an artifact of a lost culture. But the neatly piled fruits and vegetables are the most glorious still lives. We buy some limes, onions, and tomatoes at one stall and wander around. The woman behind the astounding pyramid of produce is pure Mayan. I admire the display but mimic that I have already bought what I need. She really likes my gesturing.
central market
the smiling vegetable vendor's
silver-capped teeth
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