Posts Tagged ‘Haibun’

“Seasons Change” haibun

May 31, 2020

DSCF2570

(Watercolor above by author below)

For Frank Tassone….a wonderful haiku writer.

I love Haibun form, and I love to ‘answer’ the Haibun with other forms like Tanka and Haiku.  In this time of complex stress….it’s good to have this before my eyes.

Lady Nyo

Haibun:  Light filtering ….Seasons Change

 

Autumn wind startles–
Lowered to an ominous
Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!
The fat mountain deer listen-
Add their bellowing sorrow.

 

The gingko filters the sunlight, the ground a crescent- printed cloth fit for a yukata.  It hits my hands and feet, creating white scars that do not burn.  I welcome the sun.  My bones grow thin.

This passage, from summer to fall, eternal movement of Universal  Design, counts down the years I have left.  There is so much more to savor.  Two lives would not be enough.

Tsuki, a beggar’s cup too thin to fatten the road, still shines with a golden brightness, unwavering in the chill aki wind. The Milky Way reigns over all.

 

Sharp moon cuts the sky

The fierce wind from the mountains

Disturbs dragonflies.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haibun: The Mermaid

May 27, 2020

This Haibun is from ‘Memories of a Rotten Childhood” not yet published

Haibun: The Mermaid

 

The ‘50’s was a time of Mickie Mantle vs. Marilyn Monroe, Better Red than Dead, or Dead than Red, confusing for children as we didn’t understand ‘why’ we were to change color.  The ‘50’s was surviving the drunken kindness of a father and the sober malice of a mother, with all of us siblings carrying water to both.

Second grade and I remember tall windows that cranked out at chest height but only the teacher was allowed to touch the crank and the smell of ages: mold, asbestos and lead paint was a constant in our tender lives.

I remember being given a small lump of grey/green clay for ‘arts and crafts’.  I remember the mermaid I molded:  rolled clay for hair and arms, perky breasts, a split tail. I used my fingernail to make scales.  I remember old Mrs. Hoephner coming down the aisle, her knarled hands balled into fists, her grimace, her white hair floating like a wrath around her head and she saw my mermaid and stomped it flat with her fist.

Five decades later, I made that same mermaid, (I hadn’t progressed far with clay,) but this time, I glazed her shiny and she visited the fire and I gave her a crown of thorns.  Again,  I saw old Mrs. Hoephner, crabby old woman long dead, coming to my desk and Thump This, you old bat, you destroyer of a child’s imagination and you will be wearing that crown of thorns.

 

Imagination

Such a fragile thing.

Child’s salvation

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016-2020

“Healing with Nature”, Haibun

August 29, 2019

 

Kohut-Bartels-LS-10.jpg

(a small watercolor by me)

Haibun: Healing with Nature

 

My solitude shared

night time crickets and an owl

the moon must approve

soft moonbeam filters dust motes

a thousand fish swim upstream

(a Tanka)

It is late afternoon, winter by calendar, spring by temperament. The radishes have pushed above the dark soil, and look promising.

Two cats and I are sitting on a retaining wall that retains nothing, except Madame Alfred Carriere and Graham Thomas. They both have climbed to the second story and are looking in the windows, watching us sleep. I am surrounded by budding nature, the canna lilies brush my thighs with tenderness, making room for me. I sigh and relax into the gathering dusk.

Last night I heard the wood owls. Their demonic chattering scared me into the chicken coop to stand guard with a rake, nervous as the hens. Now I know they are only six inches tall and can’t eat me.

When I die, I want my ashes scattered on this garden. Then, my ash-hands will caress the seedlings from below, my ash-heart will take pride in their growth, and my ash-ears will still hear those wood owls.

The moon is rising, a beggar’s cup too thin to fatten the soil. Mourning doves chant their benediction and swallows tumble like sickles in the failing light. The dark embraces all below. I am healed from the day’s tribulations. The sounds of the urban give way to the enchantment of the Night.

 

The soil our bed

Our classroom and our graves.

Reborn to the world.

(a Haiku)

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017-2019

Haibun: Shadows

August 13, 2019

 

 

Kohut-Bartels-LS-17

(Oil painting, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2010)

 

I love the Japanese form of Haibun. It’s a form 1000 years old and originated as a travel document by poets and priests. It’s supposed to be just ‘notes’ about the surrounding environment, but at times was extended to something longer. I was challenged to write a Haibun incorporating shadows. I include a haiku at the end to ‘seal the deal’.

Haibun: Shadows

The newborn radishes are shadowed by cherry tomatoes. The almost-red globes drop down to visit. They compare hues. The garden is bathed in the light of a horizontal crescent moon, grinning like an idiot, suspended over trees that cast shadows on hillocks and deepening the valleys with their creeping darkness.
It is very early Spring. Dusk and day still balance in a pale sky, though the moon has risen.

Oh, the mystery of the night where shadows churn with imagination!

I sit on a concrete wall, watching distant clouds dance on the wind. The oaks are feathery with their foliage, the pecans still winter-nude. Day is closing. Doves are almost silent, sleepy sounding. Bats speed by, scimitars of the night. I close my eyes and drink in the approaching dark. Only those shadows attend me, and possibly a few lurking monsters.

Night’s benediction:
Bull frogs bellow in the pond
Shadows blanket day.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2018

“Seasons Change” ..a haibun.

July 19, 2019

kohut-Bartels-LS-7

(“Canada Geese”, watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels)

 

Utilizing Tanka form and Haiku.

 

Autumn wind startles–
Lowered to an ominous
Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!
The fat mountain deer listen-
Add their bellowing sorrow.

 

 

The gingko filters the sunlight, the ground a crescent- printed cloth fit for a yukata. It hits my hands and feet, creating white scars that do not burn. I welcome the sun. My bones grow thin.

This passage, from summer to fall, eternal movement of Universal Design, counts down the years I have left. There is so much more to savor. Two lives would not be enough.

Tsuki, a beggar’s cup too thin to fatten the road, still shines with a golden brightness, unwavering in the chill aki wind. The Milky Way reigns over all.

 

Sharp moon cuts the sky

The fierce wind from the mountains

Disturbs dragonflies.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2019

“Sumo Wrestling”….a haibun.

August 8, 2018

sumo

Sumo Wrestling

 

I love Sumo wrestling. Or at least I think I do. Perhaps it is the only sport where I don’t feel  I have to hold in my stomach sitting there. Watching those mountains of flesh-men grapple with each other makes my heart beat hard. But women are not to enter or touch the sand of the ring. There is such history around this sport, and such a deep tradition. The fact that they gorge themselves with a purpose makes my heart sing. How wonderful that you can eat and eat without any concern for weight or fashion!

And, did you know that those belts they wear can cost a million yen? Or so I have read. I have also read that Sumo Wrestlers are some of the most humble and gentle of men. Here, have another bowl of rice.

 

Mountains of flesh pound

A ring of sandy earth

Cunning and strength vie.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

 

Haibun: Summer

July 30, 2018

 

Kohut-Bartels-LS-17.jpg

(Summer Dusk, jane Kohut-bartels, oil, 2003)

The summer was beautiful, despite the heat.  Last night the moon looked like a beggar’s cup, soft brilliance glowing.  The days in the Deep South are sultry, but the wind picks up in late afternoon when a storm is coming and then these huge oaks and pecans are whirligigs high in the sky. Barley tea, iced tea and lemonade are the drinks of choice, harkening back to an earlier time.  Closed drapes, blinds at noon work to regulate temperature, though one doubts this will.

The heat brings to life the cicadas, or whatever is making a constant buzz outside.  It comes in waves, where one group, or species, competes in sound with another. A call and answer of tent meeting insects. The dogs of summer are wise: flattening themselves on the cool tiles of the laundry room, they remain motionless until the cooling of the night when they chase rats in the kudzu.  They have developed a taste for watermelon, and we sit on the back porch and share with them, while a wood owl barks from a huge oak above. We never see him, but his hoots add to the symphony of summer nights.

Sultry air disturbs

The sleep of husband and wife.

They pant without lust.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

 

 

 

Haibun: “Seasons Change”

June 25, 2018

Supermoon in dec.

Jilly is hosting dversepoets.com tonight….something about radical haibun….we will see.

Lady Nyo

 

Autumn wind startles–
Lowered to an ominous
Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!
The fat mountain deer listen-
Add their bellowing sorrow.

 

The gingko filters the sunlight, the ground a crescent- printed cloth fit for a yukata. It hits my hands and feet, creating white scars that do not burn. I welcome the sun. My bones grow thin.

This passage, from summer to fall, eternal movement of Universal Design, counts down the years I have left. There is so much more to savor. Two lives would not be enough.

Tsuki, a beggar’s cup too thin to fatten the road, still shines with a golden brightness, unwavering in the chill aki wind. The Milky Way reigns over all.

Sharp moon cuts the sky
The fierce wind from the mountains
Disturbs dragonflies.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Haibun: Sumo Wrestling

June 21, 2018

sumo

It’s a hot and overcast day but beautiful this first day of a long summer.  I am watching a green eyed one year old kitten we rescued from neighbor’s basement window, along with her brother.  Every year this neighbor comes calling with news that a mother cat has dropped her kittens on his turf. We, of course, bite.  That is one reason, the prime reason, we have now 10 cats here.  All fat and spoiled cats.  This afternoon I was watching Edwina (the green eyed beauty, with spots like a gray leopard) sleep with her face in my expensive German feather duster.  Her arms encircling the handle.  What the hell…a new cat toy brings more usage to this duster than I ever have.  A good feeling when you can add to the pleasure of an animal.  Edwina and her brother Fudo, he a jet black stalker of anything that moves, especially toes, are a blessing of the Universe.  For some reason they made me think of this haibun of Sumo Wrestlers.  Probably because of the kibble (and more…) that they eat.

Lady Nyo

Sumo Wrestling

I love Sumo wrestling. Or at least I think I do. Perhaps it is the only sport where I don’t feel like I have to hold in my stomach sitting there. Watching those mountains of flesh-men grapple with each other makes my heart beat hard. There is such history around this sport, and such a deep tradition. The fact that they gorge themselves with a purpose makes my heart sing. How wonderful that you can eat and eat without any concern for weight or fashion!

And, did you know  those belts they wear can cost a million yen? Or so I have read. I have also read that Sumo Wrestlers are some of the most humble and gentle of men. Here, have another bowl of rice.

Mountains of flesh pound
A ring of sandy earth
Cunning and strength vie.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2017

 

Haibun: The Mermaid

June 1, 2018

Mermaid

The ‘50’s was a time of Mickie Mantle vs. Marilyn Monroe, Better Red than Dead, or Dead than Red, confusing for children as we didn’t understand ‘why’ we were to change color. The ‘50’s was surviving the drunken kindness of a father and the sober malice of a mother, with all  siblings carrying water to both.

Second grade and I remember tall windows that cranked out at chest height but only the teacher was allowed to touch the crank and the smell of ages: mold, asbestos and lead paint was a constant in our tender lives.

I remember being given a small lump of grey/green clay for ‘arts and crafts’. I remember the mermaid I molded: rolled clay for hair and arms, perky breasts, a split tail. I used my fingernail to make scales. I remember old Mrs. Hoephner coming down the aisle, her knarled hands balled into fists, her grimace, her white hair floating like a wrath around her head and she saw my mermaid and with her fist, stomped it flat.

Five decades later, I made that same mermaid, (I hadn’t progressed far with clay,) but this time, I glazed her shiny, she visited the fire and I gave her a crown of thorns. Again, I saw old Mrs. Hoephner, crabby old woman long dead, coming to my desk and Thump This, you old Bat, you destroyer of a child’s imagination and you will be wearing that crown of thorns.

Imagination
Such a fragile thing.
Child’s salvation

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2018


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