Tag Archives: Haibun Today

‘From the Deep’ in Haibun Today

Haibun Today

 

I’d stopped writing haibun for a while. It was that moment thing. Every time I tried to write in the moment I found it difficult—nay, impossible—to stay in it. All sorts of ideas bubbled up: memories, associations, judgments; my need to appear clever. I wrote about the past, about objects, about regrets that sat in the heart like stones. Too much luggage, too much heaviness, too much of this world. Weighed down I stopped. I hoped for a prompt, a muse who would give me the push I needed.

Then one day, in Finsbury Park, sharing a bench with a woman talking to herself, my wish was granted. Dishevelled, wild-eyed, looking at all directions at once, thin as if she never ate, muscle fibers moving all at once, mumbling continuously. She turned and took a quick look at me, fell silent for what must have been a whole minute, and then started again. I tried to make out what she was saying. I realized she was reciting Homer’s Odyssey. In ancient Greek! I tried to follow. I could not make out whole passages, got lost in translation then caught up with her again. The holes in the recitation made by my absences did not matter. I sat with her for a long time. Darkness fell without me realising. A chill crept up from the soil. The sounds of the city surrounding the Park changed to an indeterminate, persistent buzz. Dark figures approached and slank away. Every now and then she wiped her nose, rubbed her forehead, played with her earring. I followed her recital long into the night. Long after the guards locked the Park gates and the full moon bathed us in silver.

deeper than the wine-dark sea urchins
.
Haibun Today, Volume 11, Number 3, September 2017

‘Out of This World’ in Haibun Today

Out of This World

Haibun Today

In the deepest of dark nights, the idea that we may be living in a computer simulation created by a higher intelligence appeals to me. I muse over the possibility that we may be simulated beings living in a ghost world without realising it!

What if the simulation hypothesis were true? What if we really lived in a version of Plato’s Cave: unable to see beyond the projections on the wall of our senses, we became captives of our perceptions. How would we ever be free? Would there be a way out? Even if a wise philosopher, daring scientist, or escaped prisoner were to tell us of the real world outside our cave generating the projections, we wouldn’t believe them.

Assuming there’d be some way out of the simulation, in those sleepless nights I think of possible glitches in the system, devise tests. This is my latest: try watching pools fill with rain, the noon slide towards evening, the inexhaustible torment of the sea: if you can bear their beauty, be well. If you can’t, you are sure to be out of this world.

revving up the engine
despite the rain
because of it

In Haibun Today Volume 11, Number 1, March 2017

‘Being Remembered’ in Haibun Today

Being Remembered

Salting is one of the oldest methods of preserving food. Fish, meats, cheeses, cabbage, olives have been cured, brined, pickled to protect them from fungi, bacteria, and other harmful organisms, and thus keep them fresh for longer. Still, it comes as a surprise to read of one more entity to be preserved in salt: memory.

A project titled Memory of Mankind aims to preserve humankind’s most precious milestones by engraving them on special ceramic tablets, and then storing them in salt-lined vaults deep in the Austrian mountains. Small tokens engraved with a map pointing to the archive’s location, and other information helping our descendants decipher the tablets, will be strategically buried around the globe. And what will future generations find to define us? The article suggests sacred texts, treatises, classics, scientific articles, images of buildings, paintings, musical scores. And individual histories, family albums, recipes.

My list would include my daughters’ photos and paintings, multiple drafts of a haibun, favorite poems, a pin cushion and thimble, an amber komboloi, an oil lamp, a pot of basil; my grandmother’s piece of the Holy Cross, the sound of the sea . . ..

family supper
the same joke for
the umpteenth time

.

In Haibun Today Volume 10, Number 4, December 2016

Memory of Mankind website

 

 

 

 

“Joining the Dots” in Haibun Today

Joining the Dots

From the compensation for the demolition of his house to make way for a new road, he bought two tiny apartments, a four-poster bed, an amber komboloi, and a pendulum clock. As a child, I considered the wall-mounted, cherry wood, chiming clock to be my granddad’s most striking acquisition. I checked it continuously, comparing its time to the watch my dad had given me before going away to sea.

approaching wind knots matter

But it was the sound of it chiming the hour that stayed with me the longest. Half a century later, I can feel the deep resonance of that chime opening doors to the past.

let’s say the map shrinks afterwards

In Haibun Today, 10: 1, 2017

‘Homewards’ in Haibun Today, March 2013 (the text)

My haibun “Homewards” appears in Haibun Today and can be read by clicking here 

Vol.7, No. 1, March 2013

It can also be found below:

Magnolia
Magnolia Exmouth

Homewards

The garden at the back of the Edwardian terrace which is my London home is small but compact. A Magnolia Grandiflora Exmouth grows in its middle, a variety that keeps its glossy, oblong leaves in winter and blossoms in summer. White, deliciously fragrant flowers grace the tree unfailingly, giving me hours of pleasure upon my return from my European excursions. But the neighbor complains about the tree shading her garden. Each year I chop off branches to keep her happy. Each year I dread hearing from her.

sunlight
a dove crosses
the border

.

For Journal publications in 2012 and earlier, please click in the drop-down menu.

.

Haibun Today, March 2013

My haibun “Homewards” appears in Haibun Today and can be read by clicking here 

Vol.7, No. 1, March 2013

It can also be read below:

Homewards

The garden at the back of the Edwardian terrace which is my London home is small but compact. A Magnolia Grandiflora Exmouth grows in its middle, a variety that keeps its glossy, oblong leaves in winter and blossoms in summer. White, deliciously fragrant flowers grace the tree unfailingly, giving me hours of pleasure upon my return from my European excursions. But the neighbor complains about the tree shading her garden. Each year I chop off branches to keep her happy. Each year I dread hearing from her.

sunlight
a dove crosses
the border