THE HAIBUN GALLERY: 3rd July 2025. Lorraine Haig - Guest Poet
- Kala Ramesh
- 7 days ago
- 2 min read
host: Rupa Anand
mentor: Lorraine Haig editors on haikuKATHA: Shalini Pattabiraman, Vidya Shankar, Firdaus Parvez and Kala Ramesh
Guest Poet: Lorraine Haig
A Thursday Feature
3rd July 2025
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT BELOW
THE HAIBUN GALLERY July 2025: Lorraine Haig
Prompt
Week 1.
high in Ladakh
trudging the crisp snow path
amongst these stars
from here I could simply
reach up and pull you back
M.L. Grace:
A Temple Bell Sounds. 108 tanka from the first twenty-one issues of Eucalypt, selected by the founding editor, Beverley George. Published in 2017.
The loss of someone you love is deep and painful. Grieving is different for everyone, and it takes time to heal. When I came across this tanka I was moved. It seems that the person portrayed is getting on with life. The crisp snow and fresh air helping in the healing process as they walk among the stars, feeling closer to the one who is gone.
Where do you find solace in grief. Is there a place to connect? Where do you go to feel closer to someone you’ve lost?
Thanks a lot, Lorraine. Looking forward to this month.
Thank you so much.
_kala
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IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT NOTICE
NOTICE
Dear Haibuneers
Starting from March 2025, we at haikuKATHA are moving on to a new submissions format for haibun submissions. (Only for haibun, please note!)
Writers are invited to submit one unpublished haibun per submission window.
Kindly note the submissions calendar.
1-20 March, to be considered for publication in May
1-20 June, to be considered for publication in August
1-20 September, to be considered for publication in November
1-20 December, to be considered for publication in February
All accepted submissions will receive an email to confirm their acceptance by the 5th day of the publication month.
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The Google link will be given in this space soon. This form will open only during the submission period.
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The Haibun Gallery continues as is.
We will be having editors and prompts, and your sharing…
https://www.trivenihaikai.in/post/celebration
Issue 45 selected list is up!! Please check.
#1
The Artist
Dad’s fingers hover. He’s thinking about which animal to draw. Where to place the first mark on the paper. We children are gathered round, waiting. Our excited voices must be a hindrance, but he’s not perturbed. It’s a game. We have to guess before he finishes.
He always sharpens his pencils with a Stanley knife, slicing back the wood to make the lead long and tapered. I imitate but never achieve his skill. Later, I show him my paintings. Winter trees in clotted paint, horses galloping on shiny cardboard.
life drawing
from the shadows
a guiding hand
Lorraine Haig, Aust.
Revised with thanks to Alfred.
The Artist
Dad’s fingers hover. He’s thinking about which…
#2
Gembun
the night sky brings less and less peace
lullabies
for the ghosts
in candlelight
Alfred Booth
Lyon, France
(feedback welcome)
5/7/25
Edited:
where the path forks
rain has just passed, leaving behind the faintest steam rising between stones. my boots find their rhythm again... leaf, puddle, root, soil.
I don’t know if I came here for air or absence. ferns greet the clouds and spill along the trail as if wildness has taken hold.
the old oak tree leans a little more each year, still holding its space. I could name it now by touch.
somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to remember the version of you I first loved. maybe I shaped you, or maybe you found your way into the spaces I left unguarded. now we pass like deer across a field... still beautiful, still breathing, but…
#1
Unresolved polyphony
I can no longer simply grin and bear it. The pain. The twitching movements, even when I know what provokes them, still flash like tiny lightning bolts. Impossible to forget a lifetime of four or more daily hours at the keyboard. My four walls don't understand the hesitations, don't care if presto sounds like allegretto; they are nonetheless a silent audience. My ears, my heart and my fingers know the truth. So I play the slow sad songs of my youth, but now the sadness mourns the loss of what brought joy to my life and with a tin cup clanking begs me to stop, offering only in exchange the inevitable epitaph of "close the keyboard once…