Under the Bashō 2025
Haibun
Editor: Pravat Kumar Padhy
- Details
- Written by: Chen-ou Liu
with a plan of action, you can move forward and catch a glimpse of light at the end of this tunnel of self-isolation, my friend keeps scratching his head to find some nice words that comfort me.
slanted moonlight
in bed I curl around
this emptiness
in predawn darkness
awake from a dream of death ...
heart-to-heart with myself
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- Written by: A J Johnson
I am obsessed with Mad River brown trout. And like a river junkie I spend every spare moment there to be schooled in hard luck and yearning. After another Saturday strikeout, with three-days of whisker stubble, my raggedy second-hand fatigue jacket, and a sweat-lined ball cap signaling my defeat, I drive my rusty Corolla back to town, absent-mindedly blowing past the local speed trap. Of course, the police officer starts with the question I have heard many times and to which there is no winning answer: “Do you know how fast you were going?” But he must have noticed the wild look in my eyes and softly questioned: “Are you employed?” “Do you have a place to live?”
And I blankly stare into the distance thinking of that crystal clear Ohio spring creek where Tecumseh was a child.
fevered dream
a spring tide leviathan
splinters my shinbone
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- Written by: Maciej Faliński
I sit across from a homeless woman. She might be my age. I have never seen her beg. I type these words into my phone while she writes something in a tattered notebook. I can’t shake the feeling that she is an artist or a poet. She never parts with her patterned scarf and the unusual shirt I first saw her in. So little separates us—just a few steps, from her to me. All it takes is walking through the crowd of people rushing past.
a wishing pond …
the ripples barely
reach across
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- Written by: Carolina Hospital
The Australian pines are gone, transplanted to replace the native flora. With their needle-like branchlets and cone-like clusters, they were not pines at all. But these towering trees walled the shore as if protecting us from the deep black sea. That’s how it felt back then in the 1970s, when we parked until dusk shrouded us inside, letting in the sound of the lapping waves.
wide darkness …
we breathe in adios
following the stars
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- Written by: Lavana Kray
The inclement weather has ruined my plans of mountain hiking. The path turned muddy. Wet birds watch me sliding towards the yellow water while trying to get hold of branches. The nenuphars make a place for me. Daylight only flows into the stork's eggs. Perhaps, it’s not by chance that I am here. I could find out how long it takes for indifference to become a concern.
falling stars –
equally vulnerable
the sky and man
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- Written by: Andrew Grossman
The spring oaks fill in. They loom over his Pennsylvania Stone Farmhouse and block his view of the moon. He is the last of three siblings who farmed the surrounding fields.
The season turns over, but does not replenish him.
A squirrel slowly climbs down a tree trunk. Deer rustle in the undergrowth. The dead leaves, pushed out by fresh buds, flutter down. For a little while longer, this early spring, he will continue to enjoy the glow of his neighbor's light.
He sees the full moon through the trees. Brother Harvey suggested we could start plowing early. Sister Mary offered to harness the horses in the morning.
creaking boards
moonglow leads
my gentle footsteps
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- Written by: Vidya Hariharan
I am older than all the other students in the class. I am, at fifty-six, what is generally termed a ‘mature student’. There is a plethora of i-pads in the classroom, earphones, tablets and other electronic gizmos, the names of which I don’t know.
The wall behind the lectern is a large, white screen. The teacher stands on the podium, writing on his laptop with his liquid pen. He barely looks around, not even to the screen behind.
Quite suddenly, I feel as if the table starts vibrating. My classmate’s mobile phone screen lights up with “MOM” and his hand hovers indecisively over it.
spring zephyr
my fluttering scarf
chases nothingness
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- Written by: Anthony Lusardi
the ride to stillwater, new jersey. i remember apple orchards on the cusp of blossoming. the fences that separated them from the road. and the fences that separated the training areas for racehorses. i recollect allowing a mother turkey and her chicks to cross. and the spot where we halted and pulled over. because i had to puke up some harmful sugar cookies after a cousin’s christmas pageant. all were memories that we laughed and talked about.
with many of us having grown up or moved as far as georgia or florida. however far any trip, what matters most is at the end of the road.
autumn day moon
what remains in the maple
two neighboring nests
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- Written by: Ganesh R.
The road to the restored Key Monastery through a landscape of silent grandeur—jagged cliffs, the deep blue sky, and the occasional flutter of a prayer flag paused the stillness. The air thinned as we ascended, and with each turn, the world seemed to fade behind us. By the time we arrived at the monastery, the sun had softened into a golden hush, casting long shadows on the whitewashed walls. The structure clung to the mountainside as if carved from the very rock, an extension of the land itself. Monks in deep maroon robes walked in measured silence, their faces serene, as if carrying the weight of peace itself.We climbed the last few stone steps, our boots scuffing against centuries-old pathways. The wooden door groaned as it opened, revealing a dimly lit chamber fragrant with incense. Butter lamps flickered, casting trembling halos on the ancient murals of bodhisattvas and celestial realms. A lone monk sat cross-legged in a corner, eyes closed in quiet meditation. The calmness of the place was unbroken even by the wind that had accompanied us throughout our journey. My friend lingered near the prayer wheels, tracing the carved Tibetan script with his fingertips. His usual restlessness seemed to dissolve in the solemnity of the space.
He exhaled, his breath curling in the cold air. "Why do people renounce everything for this? That night, he turned to me, his voice steady. "I think I have found what I was looking for."
prayer wheel
the wind carries his words
to a new destination
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- Written by: Robert Witmer
I finally found a shepherd who agreed to appear in a poem of mine on YouTube. It was to be bucolic, with flute music. I wasn’t so sure about the sheep. A bleating lamb or two, maybe, but I had to keep costs down. Do you know what an iambic pentameter goes for these days? No love scene. Just the lament of a lonely soul, a rustic in the rusty light of early evening, longing for love. I had a problem, though. My shepherd was over eighty. I thought it best to avoid any accusations of ageism. But I replaced the flute with a cello. Those deep resonant tones brought a somber gravitas to the scene. Joseph carrying a lamb over blank verse.
the world
before the child
grows into our words
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- Written by: Richard L. Matta
A friend invites me to a party to meet Susan. She’s out picking wildflowers for the table. Somehow, I end up arranging them—some latent talent surfacing. Guests take notice as Susan arrives with a smile and joins me briefly, decorating the flower vase.
I overhear the host say, “Hmm, what’s going on with the military officer corps these days?”
I’m a lieutenant. We share a moment of graceful silence, exchanging smiles.
I shake hands with the host on my way out. Susan gives a hug, avoids my outstretched hand.
pottery class—
my fingers become
red clay
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- Written by: Pamela Garry
What is it about that word? Every time he hears it, he points it out to me. Stunning attack, stunning blow, stunning comeback, stunning defeat, stunning effort, stunning failure, stunning garden, stunning home, stunning impact, stunning jewelry, stunning kindness, stunning love, stunning moon, stunning nightmare, stunning observation, stunning progress, stunning quiet, stunning revelation, stunning sky, stunning trouble, stunning upset, stunning victory, stunning wind, stunning X-ray, stunning yield, stunning zinger. Eventually all the nouns, especially those proper nouns, seem to fade; ‘stunning’ tends to linger.
at break-of-day
abuzz with stunning chatter
a bed of pansies
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- Written by: John Zheng
Two men scratch a chat over plates of oatmeal and sausages in Hotel Marlowe where they attend a literature conference. One asks the other where he’s from. “Memphis.” The word rolls like a coin across the table. (He’s worked in that blues city for two decades.) Then he adds, like serving the shuttlecock underhand from below waist height, “I’m originally from South Korea.” The receiver hits the shuttlecock, “Oh, I thought you were from Japan. I taught English there ten years ago.”
Tokyo tour
asking for directions
with a note in kanji
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- Written by: Susan Burch
If the world is built on the back of a turtle, then when there are no more turtles, there will be no more worlds. The multiverse will collapse…
moonlit beach
just a billion grains
of sand
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- Written by: John Paul Caponigro
Walking on a country road under summer stars, I passed a younger man who looked like me. I had an urge to confess my mistakes and spare him trouble, followed by a hope that he thought I’d like to be like him.
hazy morning
through the looking glass
looking again
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- Written by: David J. Kelly
He was a quiet boy. Said he liked to climb trees. Collected bumps and bruises like the other kids collected cards. Never made a fuss. Always out on the soccer pitch – whenever someone brought a ball. Fancied himself as a striker. Quite the dynamo. Even played when his arm was in plaster.
crack willow
a young branch will
only bend so far
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- Written by: Ce Rosenow
(for Jen)
Hands tinged with greasepaint and sweaters wet from the dry ice machine, we watched our classmates strike pose for a standing ovation. At sixteen, I idolized your every move as you ran the show like a pro. After the final performance, we drove drinking and singing to the cast party, immersed in our one brief shining moment.
in lieu of flowers . . .
that tune I still whistle
every now and then
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- Written by: Joanna Ashwell
It is here by the river that tiny yellow vetches begin to burst through the soft earth. A moment of sunlight for my weary eyes.
violet petals
palmed in silence
soothing the breath
Small moments gather to bind me back to life. The echo of water over stone, the tide over upturned sky, the release of my thoughts back to nowhere.
dragonflies
the first drops
of a dream
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- Written by: Carla Schwartz
My daughter, jacketed in red, squats on a stone in the stream, swirling the water with a twig, concentrating, hoping to snag a tadpole or fish, but mostly she just listens to the whoosh of the water. My son, pale as a newborn, splashes naked nearby. Birds of every color soar all around us like angels. While hoping for some sun, I look out toward the horizon.
edge of the river
I walk along carrying
a patch of the sky
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- Written by: Sherri J Moye-Dombrosky
As a child, my room was in a rather hot, stuffy attic. There were windows at each end of the attic, and when I opened them, fresh breezes could blow through—if there were any; some nights were just stifling.
What I loved most about these windows was that they allowed me to listen to the nighttime songs of the birds, insects, and especially the frogs in the nearby pond.
In our backyard was a caved-in fallout shelter built in the early ‘50s. The roof caved in at ground level, and since it ran under the pasture fence, it was truly a hazard; however, to me it was an endless wonder...tadpoles, creaks of a humongous bullfrog.
soul sustenance
the symphony of silence
in between
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- Written by: Diana Webb
I look across the horizon towards the past, see the two of us walking. The poet and the one who had covered miles on foot. Her shadow was my shadow, my shadow hers. The poet still wanders, there accompanied now by the one they call Mnemosyne, the inseparable companion who took her past all the wildflowers, now gone missing, assumed beyond trace.
window sill blooms
seated beside them day after day
a scent of the stars
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- Written by: Sarang Bhand
There comes a time in one’s life when one gets this urge to get acquainted with solitude. Not to run away or turn one’s back from the hubbub of routine. But to lock one in a room with the bare minimum —a shelf containing books by Rilke, Proust, Chekhov, and many others, neatly stacked, a well-cushioned chair with a footrest, a warm reading lamp, an Oriental rug, and a window half open to let the breeze carry in the pleasant petrichor. To be oblivious of any other external stimuli, deep diving into the written pages, and one would find peace amidst chaos, right here in the eye of the storm. Get rejuvenated to jump into the whirlpool of the world once again.
seeking ikigai …
the chapters I read
so far
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- Written by: Diana Teneva
Some mornings begin not with words, but with noticing—the hum of the refrigerator, the warmth of coffee, the silence beside me in bed. I take stock not with a ledger but a breath. The days are not always easy, but there is food, there is time, there is someone to call. And still, somewhere beneath all that, a small ache for what never was, or hasn’t yet arrived. Both are present: the fullness, and the hollow.
a prayer...
what we have
what we don't have
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- Written by: Vaishnavi Pusapati
Once as thin as rods, the aspens now outgrow the boy who once rode my hip. He leans back against their bark, measuring. Soil on his knees, small cuts unspoken. The trees sway, restless, already taller than memory.
spring wind—
his handprint rising
beyond reach
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- Written by: Michelle Brown
Reclining on a park bench near the waves washing the sand, a dog snoring after a run. Mind drifts like cirrus clouds in cerulean sky. Wafting scents of coffee caress the air, preventing sleep. In the elongated beats of time, I nod at the pelican that lands nearby.
I carry
murmurs of the breeze ...
footsteps behind
- Details
- Written by: Sushma A. Singh
Taken back to the cusp of my teenage years, I am the last player left to defend the school kho kho team, being chased by an opponent, on a rectangular playfield, the onus of victory resting on ten tentative toes. My petite frame, drizzled with fervour of a zillion, sun-tinged faces, whizzes in and out like a lit arrowhead through a row of squatting rivals, poised to tag me out.
spring fever
the meadow
a medley of colors
Ripping through the tight-lipped wind, a whistle’s screech announces the game’s end. I surrender to gravity with a thud after wresting a win for my side, thunder of applause, a thin murmur in my ears as I am pulled from the edge of blur to the scent of elation.
almanac
the wingspan
of a dribble of ink
Note: Kho Kho is an Indian game played between two teams where each player runs to tag the opponent player in the shortest possible time.
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- Written by: Patricia Nellene Deal
Music was a lifeline for my father and his most constant tool in accessing and expressing his emotions, so he and I listened to Trio Radio on Spotify for hours. I prayed. I cried and sang. Dad drew breath. His breaths slowed achingly toward ceasing well past dark when, for just an instant, as the end was very near, a panic consumed me.
“This is not the one! You cannot die to this song!”
Tumble out of bed and I stumble to the kitchen
Pour myself a cup of ambition
And yawn and stretch and try to come alive
Dolly belting out 9 to 5, decades having passed since earning his living. Another breath. Another song. Relieved. Remembering how much he loved this song, how it reminded him of mom. I was ready now, for a moment, forgetting this wasn’t about me.
I feel so bad I got a worried mind
I'm so lonesome all the time
Since I left my baby behind
On Blue Bayou
Another breath… and another.
Hobo’s Meditation begins. By then, the nurse was standing opposite me, beside my Dad, under the monitors. I took a breath to listen to what Dad had to say.
Last night as I lay on the boxcar
Just waiting for a train to pass by
What will become of the hobo
Whenever his time comes to die?
autumn sky …
last 3 songs echo off
a life in 3 acts
Author’s note: The 3 italicized verses are lyrics from the following songs: Tumble out… (From 9 to 5 by Dolly Parton); I feel so bad … (From Blue Bayou by Roy Orbison and Joe Melson, performed by Linda Ronstadt) and Last night … (From Hobo’s Meditation by Jimmie Rodgers and performed by Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris.)
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- Written by: Djurdja Vukelic Rozic
The rooster opened the day with his stubborn crowing.
A low sunbeam was flickering playfully on the wall mirror.
Finding just one slipper by the bed, I rushed towards the window.
Moving apart the lace curtains, I gazed through the window with gratitude.
The frost had mercy and bypassed our small orchard in front of the house.
Clouded Yellow
fluttering among
pinkish canopies
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- Written by: Janet Ruth
The moon does not have a dark side; it has a near side, which we can see from Earth, and a far side, which we cannot. One lunar hemisphere always faces toward us, the other always faces away. It’s due to the moon’s synchronous rotation as it orbits the Earth. Tides on Earth slow the moon’s turning so that it rotates only once for each orbit around the Earth—called tidal locking. I only grasp this concept by lifting pen from paper and orbiting it around my fist, while rotating the pen a single time during that orbit. Result—the pen’s clip always faces my fist.
Earth
as center of the universe—
then Copernicus
Assuming the far side of the moon is dark because it faces away from us is like suggesting we are the source of light rather than the sun. In fact, all aspects of the moon receive the same amount of sunlight. When we see a half-lit moon, half of the other side is also lit. A crescent for us—a gibbous brightness on the flip side. New moon—the far side is totally illuminated.
trying to think
in three dimensions
inside my head it’s dark
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- Written by: Andrew Leggett
What happened to the day? It started well enough with toast made from the bread I baked yesterday, mild sopressa salami, gruyere cheese and gherkins, two mugs of coffee and the hope of going to the cinema. There was a chest of drawers to collect from the furniture store, one that barely fitted into the back of the RAV4. It had to be manouvred onto a trolley and guided through several gates, up a step, into the house, around and down the corridors between the piles of other boxes, down a narrow hallway towards the room of its destiny, manoeuvred again to turn it around and place it, centrally, against a wall with just room either side to allow for a bedroom door opening inward and a closet door opening outward. Butchering the packaging was necessary. Then Lars Knudsen’s portrait of a galah was placed above it. The hook on the wall was just high enough to allow a margin between the blue limewash frame and the top of the tallboy. By then, it was late.
screeches outside
cockatoo as if flies
from the frame
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- Written by: Stefan Raffl
The moon lounges in the sky, white against blue. Unencumbered by convention, she flirts with hills, teases treetops, and hovers above a traffic light, as if declaring— watch out, a new signal—white. We drive past a moon garden, night-blooming flowers now washed in the sun –no glint on water. No serenade. No shadows stretch across sleepy grass. Sunlight drips through leaves. We follow it back to the sky.
What if we moved like her? Invent a secret language only the tides can read. Teach math through dance. Unveil randomness in orbits. Freedom waits for us to dare break our own habits. What if we lived unmasked—moon-bright, full; showed up as we are, even with the dark spots we usually hide?
honest glance
makes the world anew—
moon and sun in step
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- Written by: Senka Slivar
I'm in my ticket cabin at the railway station. The train gone, a lone passenger wearing a black designer raincoat stands motionless on the platform, in front of a green maize field. Familiar facial features, wearing Toto Oxford dressy shoes. Lengthy trips, endless pairs of railway tracks, probably overlong years of waiting for his return home.
He stands there, accompanied by two large, sturdy suitcases. His hands are well cared for and tender, his body slightly bent, eyes lost in the distance. "Omnia mutantur, nihil interit," everything changes, nothing perishes. It was a quiet landing on an entirely strange planet from his past.
grazing cows . . .
a boy with a willow flute
by the brook
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- Written by: Cristina Povero
We were fortunate to be there at the right time and managed to get tickets for the concert rehearsal. The Stradivari “Vesuvio 1727” was missing from its polished glass display in the museum, resting on the grand piano of the concert hall, ready to sing for us once more. Not the starring role this time, though.
Next to it lay a different violin, wearing a harlequin look, a patchwork of contrasting colours. While we were getting curious about the unusual instrument, we were told that some inmates from a nearby jail had made it with the driftwood from a migrant’s shipwreck.
coloured wood
musical notes from
the lost voices
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- Written by: Miera Rao
She has but weeks. We pore over albums. There aren’t many pictures of her young life – just a couple of sepia photos of her with her parents, and of her graduation. There’s a black-and-white album of her wedding, and color photos of family vacations we took. Her hand reaches for her favorite photos – in Sringeri with the gigantic Deccan mahseer nibbling at our toes in the river, at Karwar Beach where she was on her honeymoon. It seems as if she’s drawn to water these days. She points to one with the waterfalls. Where was this, I ask. Jog Falls, where I told him he was going to be a father. She sprinkles the money plant on the windowsill and turns it towards the light. Even the Devil’s ivy… she murmurs and closes her eyes.
cascading falls
combing her silvery locks
wide-toothed comb
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- Written by: Vidya Premkumar
The net touches water, and the world rearranges itself. One cast, clean, confident, and the backwaters split into neat squares, each holding its own slight glint of sky. I often watch the fishermen; the gesture feels ancestral, almost liturgical. A single sweep of rope and weight splits the surface into geometry. This is where I first learn the soundless authority of division.
Now, in Wayanad, the memory returns each time we ride through the six-kilometre stretch we call Totoro’s road. Here, the splitting is immense. The land lies open like a vast sheet of water, and God (if God has ever been a fisherman) seems to have thrown a net wide enough to reach the horizon. Mud lanes run like grid lines; paddy fields held in perfect squares; a harvest of earth shaped by human will.
On the forest side of this road, the tribe gathers what the season gives: roots, greens, and fallen fruits. No hewing. No measured squares. Only a practised listening to the land’s pulse. On the other side, cultivation repeats its tidy pattern. We traverse these two worlds daily, straddling them with our bike, plaiting the cultivated and the freely reaped in a single passing breath.
twilight
helios and selene
cleave time
*Yugma is a Sanskrit word meaning ‘convergence.’
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- Written by: Nalini Shetty
I walk the field behind the house, the one I’ve crossed for years without thinking. Today the grass feels different—stiffer, almost obstinate—as though it has learned something I haven’t. The neighbor’s shed leans a little more than last season, its roofline dipping like a tired shoulder. I stop at the low fence where two boards have begun to separate. I press them together out of habit, though I know they’ll open again. There’s a certain ease in admitting things won’t stay fixed.
stray feathers
a sparrow’s brief quarrel
with the wind
I continue until the path narrows and slips into patches of weed. I decide not to make my own way through. Instead, I stand still, waiting for something inside me to align. Nothing does, yet the quiet feels unexpectedly clear.
fence corner
a rusted nail holding
what it can
- Details
- Written by: Sara Tropper
Since the seventh, I’ve been watching. The wisteria comes and goes. October stays.
running asphalt the road remembers its stones