hosts: Kala Ramesh & Firdaus Parvez
mentor: Lorraine Haig
A Thursday Feature
26th September
Settlement
Weekdays with Mom. Weekends with Dad. So his baseball mitt was at Mom’s when he was at Dad’s, and his Raiders jersey was at Dad’s when he was at Mom’s, and neither of them got why it mattered. They’d just buy him another tee-shirt or buy him another mitt when what he really wanted was his own little house—a place where Mom and Dad came to visit, lugging their favorite stuff in grungy little duffle bags.
joint custody
the short end
of a wishbone
Harriot West
Source credit: https://contemporaryhaibunonline.com/cho19-3-table-of-contents/harriot-west-settlement/
Challenge:
Do you know this child in this haibun? Do you feel for him? With just a few sentences, Harriot has given her readers a glimpse into the young mind. For a moment, we are a part of his confused and lonely life. This line brought tears to my eyes - "and neither of them got why it mattered."
So, this week, we invite you to give us a haibun with at least one line your readers would like to die for!
Get creative, see how concise and brief this haibun is and yet ...
Here are some more links to her work:
Until One Day I Said Enough: Harriot West on Haibun, an interview by Jeffrey Woodward in Haibun Today (Volume 9, Number 1, March 2015)
Harriot West and Minimalist Haibun by Ray Rasmussen in Haibun Today (Volume 8, Number 4, December 2014)
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We are delighted to open the comment thread for you to share your unpublished haibun (within 300 words) to be considered for inclusion in haikuKATHA monthly journal.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.
Edit:
#2
Eclipse
We all begin to gather around the hunched shoulders. He continues to grip the thick crayon in his fingers. There is no blue sky, no green grass, no pastel flowers, as shared by the other pages in the room. Just black as a stomach’s pit. Over and over across the surface. The teacher intervenes ushering us away from the pool of mirk. Tomorrow we all wonder why Tommy isn’t back to school.
earth-flash
sometimes the rain
is all we have
Joanna Ashwell
UK
Feedback welcome
#2
Doodles
We all begin to gather around the hunched shoulders. He continues to grip the thick crayon in his fingers. There is no…
#2
**
The last night of Swann Hopewell
The third and last tome of my mémoires is finished, edited and published. A strange book, my editor first claimed, another off-the-beaten-track volume of tales. This final opus reworks fifty years of diary entries, laying bare the fragile, quicksand-like foundations of my psyche, tainted by childhood PTSD. An old man's farewell. How can I survive the loss of my only child?
the orchard
yields another offering
sickle moon
**
[2024.29.9...b]
Alfred Booth
Lyon, France
(feedback welcome)
#1
The Rift
We feel the air’s muscle as gusts pummel us. It tears through the rusty tinge of wind-swept grasses, over ground-hugging bushes. Sunlight tints the ridges and is swept away. A cleft in the hillside tumbles beyond our view. Four hundred metres below, the steel-grey surface of Lake Pedder. In the sweep of showers small islands emerge and vanish. Hillside rock glistens wet like scraped bone. The slope’s pelt ripples and undulates. It’s never still. Up here beneath the scumbled sky on a rocky outcrop, I imagine myself, easel anchored, the colour of cloud dripping from my brush.
updraught
a wedge-tailed eagle
circling
Lorraine Haig, Aust
Feedback welcome
#1
Between the Lines
I thank you for the sugar stars you place throughout my day. The open bloom of a sunflower as you enter the room. The sky always bluer with you beneath. Violets shimmering brighter in rain as you point them out. Now, I find the words I miss the most are wrapped around the hearth of home.
peace lilies
already fading
winter’s eulogy
Joanna Ashwell
UK
Feedback welcome
#1
Revised (Thank you Geetha. Thank you Joanna)
Strung Together
She woke to a cold, dark, emptiness. Slippers by the door. He had left without telling her.
On the balcony, a fly swooped in now and then. The relay chorus of crows heralded dawn. Hawkers’ calls echoed and wandered nearer. A rolled up newspaper dropped with a thud. A rusty lock grated, a nonenal aroma – the gentleman who lived below had come out to pick flowers.
Flute notes floated through swirling curry flavors.
A fresh gust of wind brought a whiff of cigarette entwined with incense smoke and the sound of a conch shell blowing, thrice. Her phone pinged.
sun rays
melting the ice around
her…