Posts Tagged ‘ haibun ’
Screen doors start sliding as temperatures rise, relieving indoors of heat, keeping papers from fleeing and birds and insects at bay, partially filtering the air let in, and casting a fine blur, a moiré, over the view outside.
Beyond the screen door
Blues, yellows in a vase
A sky of cloud
Gasping curtains
Suck to the screen door
Sudden breezes
A small whiff of
A neighbor’s cigarette
A screen door slams
Source: Screen Doors 網戸 | Icebox
Donna Fleischer
Songliness
On this chill, grey streak afternoon, a triangle of robins appears near the rim of the French window where I sit, trying to write, end up seeing only them, their fresh concentration on a wild red clover field. Every eye tilted for movement, sound, vibration.
There had been only minutes of raindrops, the kind one can count. Not enough to raise any earthworms. Yet there they stand staring at the ground. Their lives depend upon getting enough calories to sleep somewhere through the cold night and wake up with the sun, begin again. Our human tasks, by comparison, with diamond drill complicate, frack, pollute, radiate the sucked dry honeycombs.
These days I write much the same way. Bore into white paper sheet, computer screen, topographic font, space bands, contour, hoping to bring to surface something necessary felt there.
open window,
with Mompou’s song
morning birds join in
Source: Contemporary Haibun Online: An Edited Journal of Haibun (Prose with Haiku & Tanka Poetry)
Donna Fleischer
Just Enough
The river trail is flush with wild rose bushes. Flanked by them, their just enough scent, pale whites and pinks, kimonos slightly open
the folds
of the geisha’s robe
wild roses
Source: Contemporary Haibun Online: An Edited Journal of Haibun (Prose with Haiku & Tanka Poetry)
Wild geese in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, New York City, USA, 2017. Photo by Rebecca Norris Webb from the book Brooklyn, the City Within with Alex Webb/Magnum Photos
Our cities are filled by the hubbub of human-made noise. Where shall we find the quietness we need to nurture our spirit?
Source: Why we need an absence of noise to hear anything important | Aeon Essays
Undertow
Mid-July morning rain falls clapping among oak leaves. Woodpeckers queue on tree bark for suet cake in view. black cat cries. Watching from inside he cannot help himself. Twitterings, chirpings, staccato rasps, glissando uproar
highway drones
through morning birdsong
mournful undertow
Donna Fleischer
indra’s net, bottle rockets press, 2003
‘Concrete Henge by Night’ by Paul Conneally
January 2020
Dronfield, UK
Concrete Henge is a special place for me. Well, a place. It forms the supports for the Dronfield Unstone Bypass just outside Dronfield town, more like a village, centre. In a time yet to come future civilisations will marvel at the sunrise and sunset falling across these huge concrete structures, in particular the ones towards the centre of the span where on certain days certain alignments of concrete and shadows present themselves. Some will bow down in reverence, mainly because it makes them feel good to do so. The heavens will chuckle a little and their audience now captive bring on the clouds with a little light rain thrown in for good measure. People will still buy ice creams after all this is England.
At night the Henge takes on a different feel. Hazy, blurry, even on clear night.
disarming fog
every streetlight
a full moon
Paul Conneally
My work has often seen me walk and write symbiotically with William Wordsworth. I’m suddenly jolted back into that relationship with the realisation that all the roads around here, an housing estate in Dronfield Woodhouse, are named after places in The Lake District and that everyday I walk this road, Grasmere Road. Grasmere the birth and burial place of the great poet.
Here are some lines he wrote by Grasmere Lake in 1806:
CLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
A vivid repetition of the stars;
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed
At happy distance from earth’s groaning field,
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
Is it a mirror?–or the nether Sphere
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds
Her own calm fires?–But list! a voice is near;
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, ‘Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!’
William Wordsworth
Grasmere Lake
1806
And I walk on. Four times a day. I travel the edges. The between ways. Sometimes crossing the borders other times sticking close by them but remaining to one side. Trying to make sense of, to know this place and that and mine too.
a car alarm
suddenly stops
hedge sparrows
Paul Conneally
Dronfield Woodhouse
December 31st 2019
Source: Hedge Sparrows | Burn The Water
Source: Daily Haiku: Dec. 22, 2019 | Charlotte Digregorio’s Writer’s Blog
Walking the edges after rain after rain. I meet the Happy Panda. A Chinese takeaway in Dronfield Woodhouse. I’ve passed it many times but never when open. One man is inside ordering his food by numbers. I like the way the bog standard orange signage is caught in reflection. I don’t go in. It’s hard to believe but my 85 year old mother has never had a Chinese takeaway meal but there’s still time.
talk of sleet
the smell of chicken chow mein
sits behind my eyes
Paul Conneally
Dronfield Woodhouse
12th December 2019
Source: Talk of Sleet | Burn The Water
November sky
Quite as blue as over
April’s blossoms
My partner and I have been together for over a decade. For several years now, this has been a miracle that, like most miracles, has come to seem everyday.
Yawning blue I
Never tire of you, oh,
Tire not of me
Source: November Sky | Icebox
insert poetry everywhere anywhere here.
by Donna Fleischer
Bar-do teachings say when the dead person walks into the sun, she sees no shadow;
when she looks into a mirror she sees no reflection; when she steps out of the stream
she has no footprints. In this way she learns that she is dead
continued at Source: noise & silence
