The Diner: A Haibun*

Half a dozen old men sit in a line along the counter, some watching the news on a tiny screen mounted over the stacks of styrofoam to-go containers. Others hunch over cups of coffee keeping silent company, each with himself. A young woman in a blue face mask wipes down the counter with a stained towel.

At a table three young men in paint-spattered shirts quietly converse in Spanish and finish up their bacon and eggs. At the back of the dining room, a toddler encased in a highchair flings to the floor chubby fistfuls of Cheerios. His father ignores him and shoves a forkful of syrup-soaked pancake into his mouth. The child’s mother, with dark circles under her eyes, sucks on a straw in a glass of soda and stares into nothingness.

The rest of the diner’s mismatched plastic white chairs and farm-styled faux oak tables are vacant.   Framed photos of vintage cars hang crookedly on dingy yellow walls intermixed with black and white signed photos of forgotten celebrities, a head shot of Ronald Reagan, a tattered newspaper restaurant review from 1994, and a broken neon Budweiser sign.

In the center of a wall is a poster of Helnwein’s Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

Unceasing top offs–
soggy newsprint spread across
chipped dark Formica

*A haibun is descriptive prose followed by a haiku tangentially related to the prose.

2021

Haibun: Wandering

There is an expression that suggests when a person is being “lead down the garden path” that she is being deceived.  I do not know who first postulated this idea, but I do know there was once a wizard who said, “all who wander are not lost”.  I would rather wander down the garden path with Gandalf anytime.

Winter rains, cool nights
Green grass, red bark, orange boughs—
A compost pile looms

Ljgloyd 2020

RDP Sunday — WANDER

 

A Haibun for an Endangered Species

Today’s prompt is to write a poem that “talks.”

A Haibun for an Endangered Species

On a bright spring day, before the May gray and the June gloom, I strolled along the boardwalk, dodging skateboarders and runners.  Old men and a few women lounged on plastic tarps under their tents next to shopping baskets filled with all their worldly possessions. Chaos and misery.  I found an escape, a narrow doorway, a real hole-in-the-wall leading to a new world.   A bookstore!   Brick and mortar.  An endangered species. Towering bookcases.  Poetry leading to politics, history to mystery, photo books to cookbooks. A calico cat rolled on the floor begging for a belly rub.  I lifted a book and parted the covers.  My hand caressed a soft page.  I remembered my youth—long warm days of reading in the backyard .  I could download this book. It would be cheaper.  But this species must be saved; there are far too few now.  So I bought the book and went home.

Red Adirondack
English lavender in bloom
Bird! Don’t plop on my book!

Ljg. 2019

Wildfires: A Haibun

I am responding to a reader who challenged me to take the notes I made in my journal yesterday and write something from them.   I settled on writing a haibun, a form of Japanese poetry.   Haibun begin with brief, experiential prose (fictional in this case), followed by a haiku that is subtly and tangentially related to the prose portion.   Can you see the connection between the prose and the haiku?

Wildfire

Flinging damp sheets off my body, I bolt from bed at the sound of my phone ringing on the night stand. I fumble for the switch on my lamp.

Why is it so hot? Why is it always so damned hot? 

My throat is sore, raw, like swallowing razor blades, and I answer the phone with a ragged “Hello?” An automated voice drones something about mandatory evacuation. My mind snaps awake when I hear the name of my street.

I jump from bed and peel off the tee-shirt and shorts that cling to my sweaty body. I dress and quickly gather my bags and the boxes of valuables I had put out yesterday.

I open the front door. The air, still so hot even in the pre-dawn darkness, rushes in,  bringing the odor of charred wood and grass. I cough, and keep coughing until my lungs ache. The smoke overwhelms me.  My throat burns even more.

I can’t breath. I’m going to die.

I stagger to my car, already pointed head out of the drive way. I look up the hillside next to my house. The sky glows a sickening orange.

Now I see the first fingers of flame roar over the crest and head down towards me.

Old gray coyote
Hunts for juicy jackrabbits—
Autumn love ignites

 

 

 

Text: ljgloyd (c) 2018
Photos: Courtesy of Morguefile.com

Why I like Japanese-style Poetry

I am not an expert on Japanese poetry.  I don’t read or speak the language, and I have not studied the history of the genre.  I could not tell you the difference between a hokku, a haikai, a renga, or a waka.   I do know a bit about haiku and haibun because I  have tried my hand at writing these two forms in English.   I enjoy reading translations of the most famous haiku writers: Basho, Issa, and Buson.

Why do I like these forms of poetry?   It is simply that I like the clean brevity of these poems.   Only a master of the written word can convey an entire scene in just 17 syllables or a paragraph of prose poetry.    Haibun in general, and haiku in particular,  capture moments of clarity, mundane actions of ordinary people, and subtle movements of animals and plants in their natural settings.  They evoke, sometimes in just single words, the physical experience of entire seasons.  These forms are like a Polaroid snapshots of time and space.

Such poetry is often imbued with subtle, engaging humor or deep emotion.   For example, these two haiku by Basho:

Morning Glories-
Even from unskilled brushes
They look elegant

—-

The first day of the year:
thoughts come – and there is loneliness;
the autumn dusk is here.

Haiku and haibun are elegant, timeless, and completely human.

Here are some links if you care to learn a little more about these forms

A Crash Course in Japanese Poetry
The Japanese section of Shadow Poetry
About Haibun
About Haiku

Energies: A Haibun

This is a haibun, a Japanese poetic form which combines prose with haiku. It is a reworking of an observational post from four years ago (in case the prose and the photo seem familiar to you).

At the beach at dawn under a full moon, a woman feels a convergence of forces, the coming to together of the spirits of place and time.  It is there and then where she feels the fullest dichotomy of energies:  night and morning, dying moon and birthing sun, land and sea.   As the woman soaks in these energies, for a few sublime moments, the dichotomy disappears and balance takes its place.   And where there is balance, there is peace.

Ebb, flow, thud, crackle
Breaking surf rush forward then
Back wash, July’s dance.

ljg (c) 2006, 2013, 2017 (El Porto Beach, California)

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Night Sky: A Haibun

On a cloudless night, at the dark of the moon, close to All Hallows’ Eve, a woman stood at the edge of the sea and gazed at an indigo sky.  She murmured words of wonderment when the face of Saturn turned and revealed to her his exquisite rings.  Her spirit stirred, and she pondered if Galileo’s daughter had seen the same when she looked through her father’s glass.  Then the woman fell to her knees and cried out in love to the one who had kindled the stars.

Luminescent surf
Thunders over hard black sand
The stars cannot sleep.

Haibun: ljgloyd (c) 2015
Image: Courtesy of NASA

What is a Haibun?  Learn here.

Winter Afternoon Near the 101: A Haibun

 

Winter Afternoon

Cruising up the 101, I am a singing along with my sister and Jimmy Buffett. The sun, not a weak and watery winter’s light, but a bold, brain-slicing glare, cuts through the windshield, making me almost miss the silhouette of Anacapa Island rising out of the ocean. We stop to visit a ninety-five year-old widow. She lives alone in a ranch house at the mouth of a canyon, where coyotes come and go at night. Her age and circumstances do not keep her from doing her chores. We are silent as we drive back home.

Three towels to the wind
Frost on the grass this morning
near Ventura.

 

Ljgloyd 2015

Early Morning Haibun

Many people think that sunrise is the most peaceful time of day, perfect for meditation. I look for that slow and reflective time there as well, yet today all I hear are the muted beeps of a neighbor’s unattended clock radio through my wall, the relentless tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of wind chimes from across the street, the raucous arguing of a murder of crows, and the roar of jet engines from a distant tarmac. Who would’ve thought that morning could be so blasted noisy. I guess I’ll write some poetry instead.

Zephyr from the east
Slate and gold rain clouds ride it—
Parched earth opens wide.

ljgloyd (c). 2014

A Black Friday Haibun

This is my first attempt at writing a haibun.

Rains, long promised, still hold off.   Sycamores and cottonwoods spill their life force like blood over cracked dry hillsides. This does not seem like a place where paradise exists. Glass towers float like castles in the air on a layer of smog, yet I still discover beauty. This is where I was brought during my Black Friday travels.  This is what I found in the middle of the frenzy.

On a sun soaked day
Among flaming cactus spines
hummingbirds battle.

 

 

These photos were taken in the gardens of the Getty Center Campus.

 

ljgloyd (c) 2014