Haibun
Vol. 3, Issue 1: March 2003
WHChaibun - Bruce Ross
Old Cedar Grove
Alberta, CA
There was still snow on most of the upper trail up Cougar Mountain. I was here to visit the ancient cedar grove at its top. Just before the old-growth stand is a rock outcrop covered with small stone cairns set up to mark this awesome spot and a wooden bridge across a tiny creek. It is absolutely still. In the silence a red mountain squirrel noiselessly hops across a fallen cedar. The trees begin to tower over you. The atmosphere is deepened even more by the witch's hair lichen drooping like Spanish moss from the lower branches. Some hangs over the snowbound creek and some has fallen into a pool of snow melt where it lies in coiled gray-white stillness like some discarded strands of my grandmother's hair left as a memento. The atmosphere deepens still more. These trees are thought to be 600 to 1,000 years old. I realize that I am in some deeply profound way in a very ancient place.
early spring mountain . . .
the witch's hair hanging from
an old dead tree
WHChaibun - Michael McClintock; Linda Robeck
Shiva of Basins
South Pasadena, CA, USA
No one claims the rewards of oblivion -- by all they are merely waited for and always received.
.................this bright day . . .
.................the empty house
.................of my mother
I came to retrieve papers, a few mementoes, decide what furniture to keep, what to discard, to turn off the gas and take away the phone. I did those things and left, troubled.
I drove out to the condor reserve in the Los Padres forest and watched one of the great birds. How strange her solitary, high cascading passage through the day. There is in this creature no willing messiah of restoration or mending. She is a kind of Shiva, and in her flight you can see the intolerable weariness of time, in the wing's stroking length and thick feathered blackness, weary of days and eons of days -- the flying out, the returning, the feeding and sleeping and rising again.
For half a minute, no more, through the trees, I watch how she lofts upward, voluminous of wing, snake-headed, then slides down the sky and into a low glide, out over the basalt palisades, toward the Mojave basin.
I turn and go, having seen what I needed.
Summer Heat
Merrimack Valley, MA, USA
I stay home to wait for the electrical inspector. He arrives in a huge new pickup truck that I hear while it is still a block away. A big man to match the size of his truck, he walks in like he owns the place, and makes snide remarks about our housing development, our landscaping, our neighbors. I try to change the subject. In the next town a man was just arrested for imprisoning his family and raping two of his daughters for the past six years. No one even knew there were children in the house. But it wasn't even a house - it was an old storefront with plywood in the windows. I had driven past many times and thought the place abandoned. The inspector says the rapist should be caged in the town square, so people can poke at him with sticks and break the man's teeth. He pantomimes it again and again, a small grunt escaping with each thrust. After he leaves, I lock all the doors.
too shy
to speak to strangers
she hides behind her hair
WHChaibun - Serge Tomé
Il n'y a plus qu'à espérer
Liège, BE
7 ans,
elle est mal partie.
elle est souvent battue.
par ses parents --
mais officiellement pas assez
pour un placement en famille.
alors ses yeux
entre révolte et résignation.
elle fait avec...
Un médecin est appelé à l'école...un gosse s'est blessé. Silencieusement,
elle se glisse dans la pièce à la fin de la visite, baisse son collant
et lui montre ses petites jambes.
printemps brouillé --
des bleus de toutes les teintes
sur sa peau
Questions, explications et silences...
sur sa peau --
le médecin reconstitue
son silence
fessées :
cette main avait mis
des souliers
Constats par le médecin. Visite des autorités, appel des parents, puis
tout rentre dans "l'ordre"... Elle est battue, mais pas assez... Alors
le lendemain...
pluie d'orage --
elle explique le coup de pied
qu'elle s'est donné
Seuls restent alors comme protection, le nom et le numéro de téléphone
de l'institutrice, qu'elle brandit pour se protèger. Papier dérisoire
que ses parents lui voleront.
pour se défendre
l'adresse de l'institutrice
sur un papier
ciel brouillé --
pendant les coups elle pense
à l'institutrice
Un jour bien ,un jour mal. Les coups n'aiment pas la lumière du jour.
piscine --
elle a oublié son maillot
aujourd'hui
Pour midi, ses parents lui donnent pour manger à l'école. Elle,
cependantcherche ailleurs. Elle préfère. Mésestime, appel au secours,
naufrage...
récréation --
elle préfère les tartines
de la poubelle
Un événement dans l'année scolaire. Les yeux figés pour l'avenir. Image
conventionnelle, si on y regarde pas de trop près.
photo de classe --
elle est la seule
qui tourne la tête
Un signe parmi d'autres. Le changement fréquent d'école. Mais dans ce
cas-ci, ils ont été prévenus. Il n'y a plus qu'à espérer.
jeu de piste --
elle change d'école
l'an prochain
Punie, une fois de plus. Bien sûr, elle est une enfant difficile. Bien
sûr, elle mérite souvent d'être punie. Bien sûr...
cinq heures du soir
pour elle, dans son lit
déjà la nuit
The only thing is to hope
Liège, BE
she is 7,
she made a bad start.
she is often battered
by her parents -
but officially, not enough
for a fostering.
oh! but her eyes
somewhere between
rebellion and resignation.
They called a doctor to school...a boy had injured himself. At the end of
the examination she silently slips into the room, pulls down her tights
and shows him her little legs.
muddy Spring --
all shades of blue
on her skin
Questions, explanations and silences...
on her skin --
the doctor reconstructs
her silence
spankings:
that hand wore
shoes
Recordings by the doctor. Inspection by authorities, a meeting with the
parents, then after that, "the order" was restored... She was battered,
but not enough.. Then next day ...
stormy rain --
she explains that she kicked
herself
All that remains as protection a derisory paper that her parents will
steal.
her defence
the address of the teacher
on a scrap of paper
the sky churns --
under their blows she thinks
of the teacher
One day good, one day bad. Bruises don't like daylight.
swimming pool --
today she has forgotten
her swimsuit
Noon, her parents have given her a meal. Nevertheless, she looks
elsewhere. Low esteem, calls for help, ruination ...
playtime --
she prefers bread and butter
from the bin
The event of the school year. All the eyes fixed for on the future.
Conventional image, if we don't look too carefully.
class photograph --
she is the only one
to look away
One sign among many. A frequent change of school. But in this case,
they have been warned. The only thing is to hope.
treasure hunt --
she moves schools
next year
Punished, one more time. Surely, she is a difficult child. Surely, she
often deserves to be punished. Surely...
five pm
for her, in her bed
already night
WHChaibun - Kevin Ryan
Wole Soyinka - The Souvenir
1st july 2001
Charnwood, UK
he sits there behind the table
big, small, black, white,
everyone has their gaze
upon him
gentle, distinguished
haloed hair, of solid eye
his voice hints
towards America
African suns
an English education
deep, open, confident
laughter contained,
his presence grows
our questions flow around
his obsession -
how best to ridicule
to challenge
to see off
the powerful, weak,
dictators of all sizes,
even the ones
in our own heads,
......king baabu........
now watching his words
take shape before him
arms folded
breath constant
the players play
the pain of his imprisonment
unconvincingly
yet show us how to laugh
at tyranny
I watch his eyes
the rise and fall of his chest
and wonder
if he understands
these scottish, english, hybrid
actors and their
folksy, funny, accordion,
music hall,
carnival ways,
some people leave, angry
to see white skin, white voices portray
black words
but the black writer
in question
stays
to clap,
louder
than the rest,
he greets these errant players
with their subversive play
and carries off a souvenir
of yet
another
empire falling
last chord's echo -
the Nobel man
spins his plastic hat
WHC Haibun - naia; Marjorie Buettner
Section By Section
Fallbrook, CA, USA
An old black man is staring right at me! There's no way around it - I have to walk past him. In 1969 we still call them Negroes, at least I do, and I am a newlywed just moved here from a small town where we don't have any. I fix my eyes on the sidewalk and keep moving. He calls out, "What's the matter, girl, you afraid to look at me?" How did he know? Thirty-two years later I'd like to tell him, wherever he is, that I get it.
scented breeze--
removing the orange peel
section by section
The Magician's Scarf
Minneapolis, MN, USA
Mitten lost, jewelry misplaced, toys disappear--the house vacuums up objects never to be found again. And my children, oblivious of what time wrought, are under its spell, their childhood lost somewhere in the timbers, seeping, even now, into the floor boards, vanishing, mid-air, under the Magician's scarf, transformed into someone I hardly recognize, until later they reappear in dream just as if nothing has changed in years.
my youngest daughter
looking just like my oldest
migrating birds
WHChaibun - Debra Woolard Bender
Over-the-road
strange but true
Florida, USA
Truckstop. Early 1980's. Somewhere on I-70. The Mayflower idling among a hundred or more fourteen-wheelers. Thick smell of diesel even becomes homey after awhile. The two kids left in Denver with Grandma, I've joined my husband on an over-the-road furniture delivery to New York City. Sleeping in the truck is cozy - a zip-up compartment behind the seats, just enough room for two. The engine runs all night like a mother rocking babies. Portable TV plugs into the lighter. Later, listen to the truckers jaw on the CB: Fish stories, one-upmanship, chatter, nonsense. Packing quilts line the windows, keep out light and stares of curious onlookers. Inside the truckstop, bathrooms, showers, food. Morning before sunup, breakfast. After that, a fill-up of coffee for husband's thermos. I gulp the last of my hot tea. Husband leaves me at the booth to pay and get change for a tip. Enter three men. The middle one is looking straight at me. Handsome? Beautiful? His face seems to shine, open-like. "Where y' headed?" he asks. They are getting ready to take the next booth. "North Carolina", I answer, "then on to New York City". He looks into me -- his eyes pierce me, knowing, kind. "Ya'll be careful, y'hear?" He means it. His words go right into me, too. To the bone, like some kind of quiet thunder. "Thanks," I say. Husband returns, slips cash under the empty plate. I know what I have to do: Say nothing. Absolutely nothing. Back at the truck he checks the tires and engine. Meanwhile, I wrap the TV in the packing quilts, carefully center it, wedged in the rear of the sleeping cubby, surrounded by pillows and blankets so that when we have the accident it will not be thrown forward to hit either of us in the back of the head. I remove one pillow, place it on my lap. Then I zip up the thick black cloth panels, make sure they are taut. I take off my eyeglasses, put them under the pillow. Husband hoists himself up into the driver's seat, sound of air hissing from the brakes. Seatbelts secured. Stops, jolts and starts through avenues of sleeping trucks, then onto the open road. A few miles into sunrise, traffic cones funnel two lanes into one. Workers cutting roadside trees. Brand new white car in front of the Mayflower. Dealer tags still on the rear end. Older man gabbing to three older women, not watching the quickly slowing traffic. A mile or so ahead, red car on the right stopped at the end of the cones, trying to get back into the flow. Husband grabs the CB. The sound of his voice to anyone listening: "10-4, accident about to happen on I-70 East, and it's gonna be a Mayflower. That'll be me. There's a white four wheeler who's not watching what he's doing." Red car makes a run for it. White car slams on the brakes. Next moment, the Mayflower is barrelling into the left median. Rolling into the ditch, full force. Pillow over my face. The TV hits the middle of the zipped cloth panels, bounces back, nothing harmed. New white car's left rear bumper clipped and crushed. Angry driver. Their lives saved, our lives saved, and who knows how many behind us, saved. Road crew witnesses all, vouches for husband. White car driver gets a ticket. The Mayflower is loaded with someone's family antiques. Nothing is broken.
old spindle bed
a few lifetimes
left in the wood
WHChaibun - Billie Wilson
One Man Well Met
Alaska, USA
It was one of those warm nights when I wonder how any Alaskan could ever dream of living in Hawaii. The stars were dazzling and the air was summer-fragrant. It was my turn to donate food to the youth hostel, so I opted for homemade pizza. The food was nearly gone and someone in the shadows was softly strumming a folk song on her guitar. Most of us sat in a candlelit circle, discussing Yevtushenko's poetry and world affairs.
three-part harmony--
on someone's transistor,
talk of invasion
When the young man walked in, only I looked up. He came to sit beside me, letting his backpack slide off his shoulder between us. He smiled and introduced himself. He had a wonderful accent and the sort of dark brooding beauty that can make a woman nearly forget she's madly in love with someone else. While the rest of the group continued the lively discussion, he and I moved into a deeper conversation of our own. And when he said it was time for him to hitchhike out to the ferry terminal, I volunteered to take him since it was near my home.
On the drive, we talked about our favorite books and poetry and songs, and recited favorites to each other. We shared our vision for a better world. We talked and talked and talked as if we'd both been waiting decades to say these things to someone.
It was after midnight when we reached the ferry terminal. The brightly-lit ferry was already being boarded by cars and walk-on passengers. He grabbed his backpack and walked around to my side of the car. I got out and we stood a moment under the star-tossed sky. There were inexplicable tears in his eyes, and in mine. He reached out and touched my face, and then shook his head with some thought he did not speak. Then he took a fresh orange from his backpack and, without a word, handed it to me. He quickly turned and walked toward the ferry.
I did not know his arms. He did not know my bed. I have forgotten his name and the color of his eyes. Yet those few hours from 30 years ago are as fresh today as the orange he gave me then.
the north star sparkles--
a stranger's eyes . . . and soul
touch mine
WHChaibun - Eiko Yachimoto
Cracker Jacks
Yokosuka city, Japan
I was born in Yokosuka after World War II. Above my grandfather's watch shop.
I grew up listening to the tick-tock of different clocks on the wall.
I used to sleep in a room next to his workshop with my sister and cousin. Long before the quartz watch was invented. Our dreams were always accompanied by the frequent and gentle chime sounds of mechanical clocks.
My grandfather did not speak English, but he had quite a few GI customers. He never had a problem communicating. He just needed to see the watch brought in and then he fixed it. We did not enter the store, but peeped at the scene from behind the sliding door separating the store from the residence.
Many beautiful smiles of many young sailors. What they would say before leaving, still shines in me.
I became a high school student, and every morning I walked past the main gate of the U.S. Naval Base. The guards in their uniforms looked dazzlingly handsome and yet, completely alien. On rainy days, silent sailors, some of whom soaked to the bone, came out of the base and walked to their Club, known to us as the EM Club. The building floated in the middle of the city as if the "Castle" of Kafka. It was an area we were not supposed to see.
Many years later I lived in the States. Once we, my husband and I, took a trip to Chicago. We were overwhelmed by the bounty of America. We got lost in Union Station. We were shouted at when we could not figure out how to buy tickets. I could not believe my eyes when I found a bunch of sailors in the valley of sky-scrapers.
They were not silent at all. They were having fun, just like kids on a school excursion:
................spring rain's let up
................cracker jacks look up
................at shiny sky-scrapers
WHChaibun - Carmen Sterba
an hours walk
Kamakura, Japan
Richard is a regular on the Zaimokuza Beach. He walks two neighborhood dogs, Chiro and Korning.
I've known Richard for 8 years, and Chiro for just as long. Korning has lost the use of his front legs, so Richard adapted a sling for those legs which he holds while Korning maneuvers with his back legs. Once in a while, I walk the dogs for Richard when he is in the Philippines where he oversees the Philippine Self-Help Foundation, or when he is visiting his family in Britain, Belgium and France.
Chiro is running free, and Korning is resting. Richard sees a German girl from his sports club, and we stop to say hi. Then he talks to a pair of local girls. I ask, "Do you know them, too?" He smiles and laughs softly, "I'm just friendly."
longer days
two seagulls shadow
a red paper kite