THE HAIBUN GALLERY: 17th April 2025. Sandip Chauhan - Guest Editor
- Kala Ramesh
- Apr 17
- 3 min read
hosts: Shalini Pattabiraman, Vidya Shankar, Firdaus Parvez and Kala Ramesh
mentor: Lorraine Haig
A Thursday Feature
17th April 2025
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT BELOW
THE HAIBUN GALLERY APRIL 2025 Sandip Chauhan
Prompt 3
The Spring of My Life – Kobayashi Issa
People like myself think in a way a little different from him, for we live in a world filled with earthly dust. In fact, I cannot even go along with what ordinary people do, namely, celebrating the New Year with cranes and tortoises and exchanging hollow-sounding greetings, the kind of greetings given by beggars at our gates during the New Year’s season. In my opinion, people like myself who live in a ramshackle status should celebrate the occasion in a manner appropriate to our ramshackle status. Thus I neither put up pine decorations nor swept the dust of the old year away from our house. This year, too, I left everything to Buddha in welcoming the new spring.
felicity I feel
is of the middle kind—
the spring of my life
Excerpted from Dew on the Grass: The Life and Poetry of Kobayashi Issa by Makoto Ueda.
The Story Behind Issa’s Haibun
The opening haibun of The Spring of My Life was inspired by a Buddhist story from Sand and Pebbles (Shasekishū), a 13th-century text by Mujū Ichien. In the original tale, a Buddhist priest writes a letter to himself on New Year’s Eve, inviting himself to Paradise. He hands it to his disciple, instructing him to return it the next morning. When the letter arrives, the priest weeps with joy, believing it to be a divine calling.
Issa borrows this episode but rejects both the priest’s illusion and the extravagant New Year’s celebrations of ordinary people. Instead, he chooses a “middle kind” of happiness—neither seeking salvation nor indulging in material pleasures. His haibun reflects his acceptance of life as it is, while also revealing his inability to detach completely from human emotions.
Though he avoids traditional New Year’s decorations, Issa still prepares a meal for his daughter, savoring the simple joy of being a father. This happiness is fragile—his daughter would not live long, and Issa’s joy would soon turn into grief. His haibun reveals the tension between faith and attachment, between embracing impermanence and holding on to fleeting joys. He understands that everything must pass, but he still finds himself cherishing what he knows he cannot keep.
Prompt: The Fragile Joys of Life
In The Spring of My Life, Issa grapples with the contradictions of happiness—accepting life’s impermanence while still clinging to the small joys of love and family. His haibun moves between humor, sorrow, and quiet reflection, capturing moments that seem ordinary but later take on a deeper meaning.
What moments in your life have carried this duality of joy and loss? A celebration that later felt bittersweet? A fleeting moment of laughter with someone who is no longer here? A ritual, a conversation, or a gesture that, in hindsight, carried more weight than you realized at the time?
Write a haibun that captures a moment of fleeting happiness—a joy that lingers in memory, whether softened by time or sharpened by loss. What small joys remain? What lingers after they are gone?
********
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT from Kala: 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.
Your unpublished (only one) haibun should be sent to: https://forms.gle/xUEiiDR9wd2dgqtR9 only during the submission period.
********
The Haibun Gallery continues as is.
We will be having editors and prompts, and your sharing…

Post #2
21.4.25
Revised thanks to Lorraine:
… for better, for worse…
non seasonal rain
the muddy track
that leads home
The husband glares at her. She immediately cuts short the conversation she is having with a male colleague. On the way back home he is in a foul mood. Sitting in the car, she places her new handbag on the back seat of the Mercedes,hoping he wouldn’t see it. She had bought it with her own money but she knew it would irk him. “Is that a new bag?” his booming voice set her heart to beat faster. Looking out of the window she pretends not to hear him. “ IS THAT A NEW BAG???” he shouts.
“I bought…
#1
19 April
Edited with inputs from Joanna, Alfred Booth
The sweet tug
I have gone sugarless in my tea - an immediate step to lower my Triglyceride numbers. I do love my ginger black tea which I leave to seep gently in hot water (not boiling) and sweeten with sugar, with a dash of milk as a start of my average day. After ten successive days the urge to have my sweet tea gave a tug and I gave in.
ginger tea
slurping the last bit -
an empty cup
Leena Anandhi, India
Feedbacks welcome
original post
The joyless cuppa
I have gone sugarless in my tea- an immediate step to lower my Triglyceride numbers I do love m…
#1
Revised (Thank you Alfred, Joanna, Lorraine)
Weaving Us
My father is in the ICU for over a week now. Hospitalized for a broken rib, he had to be shifted to the ICU for pneumonia. At his age, this is bad news, especially as we are now allowed to meet him for a few minutes at a time.
His periods of isolation under the relentless ICU lights and beeps become longer and longer.
The times we meet, he asks if Ma’s Aadhar card has arrived. If my brother has added his own details to make him a joint holder of the bank’s locker with Ma.
My sister, who has been with my father since his…
Thank you Sandip for a lovely prompt.
#2
Lost in a haiku
There is music in Van Gogh's "The Starry Night." It hovers around the edges of the canvas, waiting for a viewer to close his eyes and see it in his own memory.
a distant bell
quiets the crickets
a call to prayer
Alfred Booth
Lyon, France
(feedback welcome)