Tag: haibun
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dVerse Haibun Monday
A View of the Cherry Tree in Moonlight The cherry tree is kissed by moonlight, it wakes as I sleep, as silver slides between its limbs, as my heart gently knocks against my ribs like uneven stairs. It wakes me from soundlessness and breathing, and even in first hours after midnight, I see moonbeams spread…
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09.03.22 Haibun Wednesday
This Morning. I’ve left my coffee somewhere. Out in the garage I think. When I went to get some chicken thighs out of the freezer. The leeks in the fridge are a bit impoverished, so I’ll roast up the chicken thighs with leeks and peas. And white wine. For that I’ll need to raid Mister’s…
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05.03.22 Haibun Wednesday
5 March/22: Hope is a free-radical. It’s the beginning of loss. It exists to mark where loss begins. I’m beginning to think that hope is the beginning of every loss. The beginning of anything that we’re attached to. Freedom. Life. Liberty. Family. We get used to loss, although I tend to lose things slowly. Losing…
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02.03.22: Haibun: Ode to Billy
Mum was always saying “pipe-down” or “quiet about that” – but my sister and I had a blind spot of affection for him. This distant, and long dead relative that Mum said was a smudge on a line. Billy was his name. A wind-grazed face, rocky as a landscape. Dusty as death. Those eyes dark…
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01.03.22 dVerse Haibun Monday
AN ODD AND UNEVEN TIME February was a dark wilderness. Floods and rain, gales that flung trees to the ground sure as they be Icarus. We tidied up after, our hearts were obsessed by reordering the disorderly. And then the wars began, though no one wanted to call it a war. How dark must it…
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23.2.22: Haibun Wednesday
The trouble with Salt And then the sea dawns. Its salt dissolves into salt, into itself. It’s a new day of slow dehydration. A life-long osmosis into dust and dryness. Dry words, dry humour, dried up and wrinkled … wrinkles on thin skinned; wrinkles in plans; wrinkles in love … And the sea’s tongue grates…
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22.02.22 The Grave of Arigdor Kara
The Grave of Arigdor Kara He returned to cool soil, and took his own truth with him. A cup of poetry beside his faith. They buried him below a granite slab, now lichen skimmed and shadow roots. The rabbi said his was a short lived bliss. Now strangers mark his passing, walk by his grave.…
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10.02.22 Mother of Dragons
No Gods, No Monsters, Just The Mother of Dragons Is that you, Daenerys Targaryen, in a flame-red frock, and riding the air like a dragon? Is that you burning down the place? What I know of her comes from catching that final episode of Game of Thrones. For eight years, I watched something else. Or…
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9.02.22: Thames Walk
SE1 Thames Walk: This city is my familiar. Its lights falling in twinkling pieces across the bridge and through the rain. Side streets. Alleys with ancient names. The sound of my footfall joins the river’s echoes — clattering dishes, cutlery, table-talk, riverside cafés. A couple want a romantic photo, asking politely. He hands me his…
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4.02.22: The Russian Girl
The Russian Girl at the Duck Pond There’s too much looking on bright side, she says. She has rod-straight black hair and a Russian accent that makes me nostalgic for Rocky the Flying Squirrel, and Boris and Natasha – not everything was bleak and fatalistic during the Cold War. And she says, lots of people,…
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