THE HAIBUN GALLERY: 8th May 2025. Linda Papanicolaou - Guest Editor
- Kala Ramesh
- May 8
- 3 min read
hosts: Shalini Pattabiraman, Vidya Shankar, Firdaus Parvez and Kala Ramesh
mentor: Lorraine Haig
A Thursday Feature
8th May 2025
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT BELOW
THE HAIBUN GALLERY May 2025 - Linda Papanicolaou
Prompt 1- 2nd week
PROMPTS for MAY 2025
Linda Papanicolaou, US
INTRODUCTION
Sometimes you’ll see the linking of prose and haiku in haibun called “renku-like.” I first learned of it from Bruce Ross’ 2001 essay "Narratives of the Heart". Immediately intrigued, I set out to study renku linking.
Too often you’ll see it said that haibun prose and poem should “scent link” (Basho’s way). I’ve never been satisfied with vague directives that leave you on your own to figure it out. Intuition is certainly important, but I’ve come to believe that a good part of linking is a craft that can be learned. One article I found invaluable was Tadashi Kondo and William B Higginson‘s “Link and Shift: A Practical Guide to Renku Composition”, online at Renku Home. In their section “Types of Linking,” the authors survey verse linking from its early days to its development by Basho and his followers. Most—even all—of these ways of linking can also be used for prose/poem linking in haibun.
This month, our weekly prompts will be skill-building exercises based on a selection of the “Manners of Linking” described by Kondo and Higginson. As you write, explore different solutions to the problem. When you post your final version, please also include a short explanation of your decision process. Also, when giving feedback to others, please focus on the linking.
MAY 8
This week we have a choice of linking manners: place (sono ba), season (jisetsu), or time of day (jibun). Another highly recommended resource for improving your haibun-writing skills is Roberta Beary, Lew Watts, and Rich Youmans’ 2023 Haibun: A Writer’s Guide. The authors talk about renku linking, offering thoughts on the differences, and what they call the “delicate dance” of good haibun linking (Chapter 1, pp. 9-10). Chapter 4 has a section “Haiku…How it Works …” with examples in which the same prose paragraph is paired with different haiku that link to it in different ways (pp. 37-40). Three of their examples follow the commonest format for haibun—prose then haiku—but the first example opens with the haiku, as an introduction or scene setter for the prose that follows. This is a good arrangement for when your prose wants to end with a punch line or closure of narrative that doesn’t offer an opening for the haiku to link. An example from my own work is “Summer Sublet,” (Triveni Haibun Gallery May 2024).
The exercise is to write a haibun that begins with a scene-setting haiku, followed by prose. The manner of linking may be your choice of place, season, or time of day. When you post your own haibun, please say your choice and explain why you chose it.
******** Linda,
Just beautiful.
It's so apt.
We'll all try to write according to your guidelines.
Thank you so much.
_kala
******
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.
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…
Sorry, I haven’t been able to comment or participate much lately—I’ve been dealing with some health issues. Hoping to be more active soon.
#1 Out of Frame
mare's tails
the skyline uncoiling
into possibility
The first weeks dissolved into each other—street signs in block letters, the rush of yellow cabs, laundromats with neon lights buzzing through the early dark. I memorized the way to the grocery store by the color of the awnings—green for produce, red for meat, blue for the cash register where I handed over crumpled bills, still rough from the exchange. The windows of our apartment overlooked the back entrance of a funeral home, its sign missing a few letters, metal doors painted a dull shade of green.
white lilies
a line of black umbrellas
pressing forward
I let the outside world recede, turning toward the quiet work of making a…
#2
Moving Day
nettle patch
the tiger moth
slipping through dusk
The boxes are still tightly shut. The rooms are stark and brightly lit, waiting for the items to find a place. There is no more movement required here today. Just a sofa with a cushion cradling tired limbs. There are many days to follow, where new surroundings can transform. I dim the lights, cradle my tea and just breathe in jasmine.
Joanna Ashwell
UK
Feedback welcome
I chose the start of evening and a tiger moth setting the scene for change and transformation.
#2
Revision, thanks to a few ideas from Janice
The dance of time
under the shade
of landscaped foliage
cricket song
A Iizard searches for a warmer spot. Faraway cottonwood fluff teases my blue jacket. Its calm floats into my thoughts as I relish the moment's silence. Later I will deliberately break it with a Bach fugue where I must let each voice have their own fluctuating importance. I will leave this meditative atmosphere long before adolescent boys yell the loudest to be heard first. Even in the most boisterous Prokofiev sonata silence has a purpose. Scientists say the sun's energy emits a high-pitched ringing, lost light years before its warmth reaches my skin.
Alfred Booth
Lyon, France
(feedback welcome)
9/5/25 #1
Museum of Temporary Things
September mist
a crow steps sideways
between guy ropes
There’s no one now. Just the square of pressed-down clover where their tent stood. Soft hollows where knees must have been. I imagine them laughing, or not speaking at all. Just the rustle of foil packets, the shush of zipped doors, the muted clink of enamel mugs.
Among the nettles: a small anklet, bright with mirrorwork and tiny bells. The kind worn barefoot at weddings. One thread has loosened, catching on a thistle stem. I crouch to look. Sunlight flares off each glass tile—pink, gold, a green like pondweed. It smells faintly of sandalwood and metal. I leave it. Some things feel more true when…