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Haibun

Edited by Pravat Kumar Padhy

Details

On my way home, a woman dressed in green approaches me and hands me an envelope. She says the envelope contains a letter from my estranged mother. I tell her it must be a mistake because I live with my mother and spoke with her no more than an hour ago. But the woman insists that the letter is indeed addressed to me. I open the envelope which contains nothing but a dry leaf. On the back of the leaf, it is inscribed:

I'm waiting for you to come back home.
Your loving mother,
The forest.

stump —
in every ring
an old storm’s story

An ekphrastic haibun based on Toyen’s painting ‘The Message Of The Forest (1936)

Details

On our way back home from trekking, my husband and I find a hidden spot with several waterfalls. Some are thunderous, some are sublime, but each is a beauty in its own right. Aloof in the deep mountainous setting, the place looks prehistoric, with giant ferns and towering pine trees. We venture deeper into the woods. Suddenly, the ground beneath our feet trembles.

cataclysm the earth throws a crisp dark shadow

Details

In a centuries-old inn, hanging on the edge of a Colorado mountainside, a key museum—1000 keys dangle from the ceiling, lay in dusty shadow boxes, or swing from faded ribbons tied to 10-pound nails—none of them unlock or lock anything anymore.

Rock Hudson’s bedroom, Greta Garbo’s Caddie key, commemorative keys to the city of Jackson, Wyoming, and Innsbruck, Germany. Half keys for lovers to keep, keys to the kingdom of somewhere. Skeleton keys and blank keys waiting to open anything.

The key to my heart hangs on a nail in the kitchen. Sometimes, I wear it on my sleeve or hang it on a ribbon around my neck. Often it rests heavy or bangs on my solar plexus trying to get in. 

a twist
just out of reach…
spring outside

Details

Reflections, on the past year, on the next year, in the window. I’m peering out onto the deck and beyond, at the unexpected light showdown over the mountain. In the bottom left windowpane is framed the reflection of our fire burning on the hearth. This past year of misplaced loyalties and loss is up in smoke. The middle panes hold two branches mirroring one another each with snow still clinging. In front of them, identical watchdogs stand guard at the sill. In the top two panes, new year’s rockets streak and flash. For the finale, a fireworks burst of blooms—pink, green, and white cosmic chrysanthemums. At this moment, the promise of a new year.

scribbled across
a blank slate sky—
your message

Details

sitting in the square with a takeaway coffee and a satchel full of detective books, i’m on the only bench that the morning sun has reached. the street drinkers and drug addicts have started doing what they do - or maybe they never stopped. i recognise one of them from the homeless project, and he greets me with an unexpected warmth by offering a swig of his vodka.

dirty river -
a pair of angel wings
floats by

Details

You are a rice seedling I have grown in the paddy of my heart, a rope bridge I sway between city and country, a seesaw I use to keep ups and downs like the motion of sun and moon. Tell me when you want to smell the scent of new rice, and I will bring you a whole bag of it grown with my muddy hands. Let’s promise to meet on that wooden bridge when we see each other again. Trust me, our yin yang will spin forever like the earth under our feet.

caged days
a strong wish to hear
a magpie

Details

I was trying to guess the slabs of the platform. There were tufts of grass covered in mist on the edges. The station was barely out of the fog. Silhouettes ran back and forth.
Some for tickets, some for cigarettes and pretzels.
I felt like a stowaway among the commuters at seven in the morning. I got on the train, stomping down the aisle, and lit a cigarette, drawing on the steamy train window.

cloudy sky -
the cock crows
the same song

Details

My father sits alone on the living room couch, watching TV with a bottle of whiskey at his side. His Player’s cigarette packet bears the image of a bearded, blue-eyed sailor with Hero, the name of his ship, written on his cap band. He’s framed inside a lifebelt, with three ironclad warships, a lighthouse, and a yellow-orange sunrise in the background. A white swan drifts forever on the emerald waters on Father’s vesta matchbox. I smooth out the creases in his ruckled newspaper and hand it to him. When in a good mood, he lets me take a sip of whiskey. Unable to put a name to my face, he stares at me with bloodshot eyes.

blackout
a candle holds
the light

 

Details

The ridgeline perfectly delineated between the blue which fills the frame between the red brick walls and the awning's shifting edge. Not a hint from this distance of the petals that hide in the leaves which the ramblers will miss in their purposeful march beyond.

beneath the surface
daffodil stems
the level of water