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THE HAIBUN GALLERY: 16th January 2025. Haibun analysis

Writer's picture: Kala RameshKala Ramesh

hosts: Kala Ramesh & Firdaus Parvez

A Thursday Feature 16th January


Haibun Analysis: Every Death had and will have a beginning

Genjuan International Haibun Contest. An (Cottage) Prize


Whispers

by David McCullough (Japan)


A February sky rose — grey pillows of turbulent cloud that soared in heavy, roofless towers above the crematorium. Lit by the lowering sun, every colour was painted on that air; purples, greens, flashes of fire. Diminished, far below, women in windblown hats huddled with men in dark suits. There was a minister with a fading, professional smile.


At a nod from the undertaker we six gathered. Two pallbearers lifted the coffin. We all stepped close. The trolley was whipped away. The weight of the wood came heavy onto our shoulders. We straightened our knees.


From far away a sudden thunder shook the sky. Dry leaves lifted. A hiss hurried over the car park … white hailstones came flashing to rattle on the coffin lid. We moved toward cover. At the chapel doorway we stopped, spilling shards of ice across the granite floor. We held our breath, then entered to lay the box at the front of the room.


A quiet body rested there. Waited to be lowered into hot fire.

The proper end to a decent life.


And yet, and yet; I could not bear to see it go.


After the service, people stood, murmuring to each other.


I went up to the box.


With one hand clutching the hand of my daughter I lifted the other to touch my father for the last time.


eyes closed,

fingertips on oak —

the sound of hail

giving way to rain




Challenge:


Death the Great Leveller.

Death that no one can escape from.

Kabir called Yama Raja (the lord of death) a thug! a robber, a thief.


Anytime I think of death, Lenard Moore's classic haiku comes to mind:

hot afternoon

the squeak of my hands

on my daughter’s coffin


—Lenard D. Moore


Please remember that the haiku needs to be strong and a stand-alone poem in haibun. A weak haiku robs the haibun of its strength.

Write a haibun on the theme of death. Every end has a beginning, from which it will rise.

So, go for it.


PLEASE NOTE:

1. Only two haibun per poet per prompt.

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. Post your final edited version on top of your original verse.

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 300/250 words) to be considered for inclusion in haikuKATHA monthly journal.


Important: Since we're swamped with submissions, and our editors are only human, mistakes can happen. Please, please, remember to put your name, followed by your country, below each poem, even after revisions. It helps our editors; they won't have to type it in, saving them from potential typos. Thanks a ton!


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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.

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125 Comments


mona bedi
mona bedi
Jan 22

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#1 Uninvited Guests


I hear you beneath the porch, oh little bees—your quiet stirring, the hum I can’t ignore. How long have you been there, weaving your secret world beneath my feet? I imagine your wings moving in the dark, your endless gathering, the soft shaping of wax into something that doesn’t belong. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?


gurney wheels

a drone i can’t place

in the stillness


I see traces of you now. Pollen dust lining the cracks, a honeyed scent curling through the air. One of you finds its way inside, tapping against the windowpane, frantic and lost. What do you want me to do?


autumn wind

threading through what’s left

of the broken comb Sandip Chauhan, USA feedback welcome

Edited
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Replying to

thank you, Lorraine

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The Ghost’s Gift


after the bang

a puddle of red—

no note


The widow hangs her jacket in the closet, slides the door closed on a chaos of brown paper bags, promises herself to organize the mess tomorrow … or maybe Saturday. It’s quite late so she heads for the new mattress on her bedroom floor. She breakfasts on a bowl of oatmeal, opens the closet to fetch a bag for her lunch, finds a surprise … an astonishing surprise.


Instead of last night’s mess, all the large bags are folded into one bag. Next to it is another packed with small bags. Resting across both is one small bag with its edge folded inward as her spouse liked to…


Edited
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Replying to

Lovely to see you here, Janice.

Nice start.

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1st Revision: Thanks to Lorraine

22-01-25


Sacred Moments


Snow dust from tree tops and roof tops of houses, swirls in the strong wind. I look at the dust, which spins and squirms as if to get out of the vortex of the wind. I open the window and am hit by the dust with an unexpected force and I freeze for a moment! 


All thoughts that were seeking release from my head seem to freeze too. The moment shook me out of myself. l close the window, touch my cold face and smile. 


Are my thoughts, unknotted?? Is there any clarity that I arrived at, about whatever I was thinking?? Maybe not, but I can see those thoughts from a…


Edited
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Replying to

Thank you Lorraine, for your detailed comment. I will revise the haibun in sometime. I recitified the typo.

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#2

 

Gembun

 

every room holding silence

 

when did starlight

become the only way

to find your song

 

Joanna Ashwell

UK

 

Feedback welcome

 

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Replying to

Thank you Kala.

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