Hosts: Shalini Pattabiraman and Reid Hepworth
poet of the month: Roberta Beary
16th February 2023
Reflections:
While reading Roberta's haibun, I found most of what I read seemingly personal or inspired by the autobiographical.
Q: What role does memory play in your writing?
RB: In all of my haibun the speaker is an unreliable narrator. In ‘Piano Practice’ the narrator may not remember accurately, but does know one true thing: when they were a child, one person loved them.
Piano Practice
by Roberta Beary, Bethesda, Maryland
My grandma speaks in a thick accent. I try to keep her away from my school friends. I don’t want them to make fun of me. At home it’s different. I like having her around because she likes me. That puts her way ahead of both my parents and my sister. Those three avoid me at all times. So when my grandma tells me to play the piano, I obey. I like the way her face lights up as I stumble my way through five easy pieces for classical piano. It warms my insides. Fast forward three lifetimes. My therapist says that someone must have loved me very much when I was young. He tells me he can see that love in my face, in my smile, in my eyes. Yes, I answer, there was one person.
on the broken
middle c
winter dusk
…
Source:
Q: Additionally, I have noticed some of your work includes art (photographs, memorabilia) in the background that offers a different dimension to the reading of the haibun. Any thoughts on the use of mixed media, found poetry as a technique applied to haibun writing?
RB: I love the idea of haibun which combines found objects, such as old family photos or passports. I believe these objects spark the creative part of the brain, in which memories, sometimes painful, sometimes beautiful, are locked away waiting to be discovered.
For a sample of ekphrastic haibun by Roberta, see the link below:
Prompt:
This week, I would like to invite you to write a haibun that evokes the memory or image of a person whose love framed your life or write a haibun that carries the distinct idea of how a particular object or event has shaped you.
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As always, a good haibun will find its way into the next issue of our fabulous journal. Kala and I are eagerly looking forward to reading your haibun. Keith Polette is the MENTOR for THE HAIBUN GALLERY from 16 December 2022. Thank you, Keith PLEASE NOTE: 1. Only two haibun per poet per prompt. Please put your name and country of residence under your poem, it makes the editors' work easier. Thanks. 2. Share your best-polished pieces. 3. Please do not post something in a hurry or something you have just written. Let it simmer for a while. 4. When poets give suggestions and if you agree to them - post your final edited version on top of your original version. 5. Don't forget to give feedback on others' poems.
We are delighted to open the comment thread for you to share your unpublished haibun (within 300 words) to be considered for inclusion in the haikuKATHA monthly journal.
Revision #1
(Thanks Shalini and Reid, for your time and kind input)
A Long Way
The old house is fast filling up with visiting children and grandchildren. She walks up the path to the gate with a smile, swaying as she always does, but at an unusually brisk pace. On the way she brushes aside her son's toddler who tries to grab her sari in an attempt to be taken along too. Her daughter and granddaughter have just arrived. She gathers the little girl from the taxi with squeals of delight and carries her all the way into the house.
The other child watches them till they are out of sight.
early dusk
a sandpiper plucking
the forked river
***********************
Feb 19 Feedback welcome 🙂.
Revision following suggestions from Anju 🙏
(𝗗𝗲)𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴
It’s hard to throw things away. Sure, some items can be donated and given a second life. But no matter how much is donated or thrown away, the accumulation seems to outpace the disposal.
Then there’s the sentimental things like the mementoes of our summer together.
winter warts -
the spread of yours
into mine
(𝗗𝗲)𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴
Spring cleaning…again.
It’s hard to throw things away. Sure, some items can be donated and given a second life. But no matter how much is donated or thrown away, the accumulation seems to outpace the disposal.
Then there’s the sentimental things. I’m now holding the mementoes of our summer together.
winter warts…
haibun 2 feedback please
self edited
The Disappeared.
The furrowed brow, circles under his eyes. He avoids eye contact. Looking to the left and right, sometimes behind. His back taut as a railing. Fingers curled hard and hurting. Wrong race, wrong religion. Whispers in the wind. A muffled scream.
sea wall
the cavity
under the road
The Disappeared
The furrowed brow, circles under his eyes. He avoids eye contact. Looking to the left and right, sometimes behind. His back taut as a railing. Fingers curled hard and hurting. Whispers in the wind. A muffled scream.
sea wall
the cavity
under the road
The Disappeared
The furrowed brow, circles under his eyes. He avoids eye contact. Looking to the…
#1
Thankyous to all who have commented here. Been working on this for a while now. So, here's the edited version.
Reaching out
Vidya, daughter,
I know this letter has surprised you and you are probably crying. It is not my intention to make you cry but I had to write to you.
Leaving you was not easy, but my time was up. Grieve not for me for I am now with your mother, in a realm beyond all suffering. My joy was boundless when I met her after so many years. The ache in my heart disappeared the minute I lay my eyes upon her beautiful face. Yes, I could see her. The cataract that had clouded my eyes…
Post #1
Reversal
Today dad got me another book on poetry. It is in Urdu. He tells me that I shall find the best poems in there. So, in the summer holidays he starts my lessons in the new language.
Soon my love for free verse and sonnets grows by leaps and bounds. I start reading Ghalib. Reading long poems late into the night has became my thing.
I am shaken out of my memories by my granddaughter who is my latest muse.
Little did I know know back then that years later I would be hooked on to short 17 syllable poems.
deep autumn—
the wordless conversations
of old lovers
Feedback appreciated:)