Haibun Kukai 1 - Global Haiku, Fall 2016
sweet rice dumplings— Suzuki, LH, 69 Missing You A couple sit at a meal together enjoying each others company, incredibly familiar and comfortable around each other. She starts to tell a story about her day and gets carried away and lets slip a small fib that is clearly untrue to the man who knows her so well. As soon as he hears it he looks up at her and smiles and knows she's been caught, but they both laugh and continue with a nice meal and time spent together. midnight in fall Alexander Erickson |
sheer summer kimono-- Suzuki, LH, 26 Dear Mom, I met her in the summer, I remember, she had skid marks on her shoes and a twinkle in her eyes. I had just been forced into attending an art exhibit in the city that a friend was working. I remember looking at all the different paintings with wonder. I couldn't believe that a human hand had been the one to create such beautiful things. I had just started to look for my friend when I saw her. I would learn later on that she'd been watching me all night, but at that moment, her attention was elsewhere. I stared unabashedly, she was so beautiful. Her hair was longer then, its brown locks reaching past her shoulders in waves. She was talking with one of the artists featured in the exhibit, her arms moving as she spoke. She turned her head, and suddenly our eyes locked. Her green eyes met with my blue ones and I knew right then and there that she'd be the death of me. She had an air of regality about her as she bid her farewells to her fellow artists and made her way to me. I stood there, like an idiot, already frozen by her beauty. "Weren't you ever taught that it's not polite to stare?" She asked as she approached. "What? I'm just staring at the artwork." "I'm not art." "You are to me." I said with a wink and she laughed. "That was so bad." "I know, I'm sorry you had to hear that." She laughed again and stuck her hand out for me to shake. "I'm Lexa." I took her hand and grin. "Clarke." Her thumb rubbed against mine before she let go of my hand. "So, Clarke, do you want to get out of here?" "Lead the way." And that was the beginning of something magical. We fell in love, mom. I'm sorry that you don't understand that, won't understand that. I wish you could accept that your only daughter isn't who you thought she was. Maybe someday, you will. brown locks Alexsenia Ralat • |
dusk— Swist, TSBU, 88 Cozy Wagon Every year as fall approached the excitement of going to pick pumpkins would build within both my brother and myself. When it started getting darker out sooner, we knew it was getting close to time to go pumpkin picking (fall). There is one specific afternoon I remember when my family traveled out to the local pumpkin patch in our small town of 3,500 people. It is a family-run farm just outside of town. As we parked at the end of the driveway and walked up the hill I could see little orange spots scattered across the field to our right. I pulled my jacket up a little higher over me as the breeze in the open field seemed to be a little colder. I grabbed my little brother's hand and we ran up the hill to grab a wagon. Instead of grabbing pumpkins that were already pre-picked, we loved grabbing the wagon to go out into the bumpy, muddy fields to pick our own pumpkins. The rumble of the our little wagon as we went through the field grew more intense as we ran to a pumpkin that we just had to have for our upcoming carving section. These are the memories I cherish—trudging through the field to choose the perfect pumpkin, or five pumpkins, since we were young and usually convinced our parents that each pumpkin was special and needed a home. Honestly I would give anything to go back and pick one more pumpkin with my family again every year. the family picking Alyssa Becker |
my love— Masajo, LH, 58 Tales of Mother In November 2004, my mother passed away. Every year on the Sunday closest to the anniversary of her passing, my extended family and I go to Mass in her honor. After this, we all drive to the cemetery that she is buried in, and visit her grave. It's always late November and bitterly cold. I am usually wearing some sort of dress or skirt and am freezing. We all stand holding hands and we say a few prayers, usually led by my grandma. After this we all go around share funny stories and memories about my mom. I absolutely love this time. Since my mother passed away when I was 7, I remember her more in these stories that are told every year than in actual memories I have with her. The same stories are usually told every year, and we all take comfort in them and laugh together. The moments I know the best of my mom are the ones that are told to me again and again during this time. The image I have of my mom is made up of all of her funniest and brightest moments, and my memory of her lives on especially during these times. This haiku brought up these memories for me because the memory of my mom is is carried on through these times, even though she is physically not here. remembering her: Anna Harmon • |
silence after our argument Swist, TSBU, 29 New Sidewalk This haiku presented a interesting memories for me. The first memory that crossed my mind was that of my mom and dad and their marriage. My father was a heavy smoker for many years; however, he eventually caught pneumonia and had to quit. My parents also had a rocky marriage in the last 6 or so years of the relationship. The combination of these two elements of my parent's marriage made this haiku hit home and brought vivid memories of living at home not only as a young child but also as a teenager. This haiku also presented another memory to me of my last relationship. My last boyfriend was also a rather heavy smoker. He never got sick or quit while we were together, although it never really bothered me. Of course, it still reminds me of the relationship. Once I started noticing problems in the relationship, I also noticed that his smoking intake increased. While we never had any "arguments," the relationship definitely took a turn for the worst. The lack of arguments and answers that I was receiving made me feel like I had no control; I was beginning to feel "crumpled." However, once the relationship ended, there was a sort of relief that came over me, and "uncurling" if you will. This haiku captured my last relationship to the point where I almost instantly imagined different situations that I was in with this ex-boyfriend. out of his control Caroline Lodovisi • My favorite story was New Sidewalk from Caroline. Her story was able to relate so well with the haiku in multiple aspects. One side was from her parents and she also had an experience with her own past relationship with what the haiku mentions. I also liked her haiku at the end and thought it fit very well with her story. Matthew |
into a white peach Suzuki, LH, 58 Crime Scene The tacky fluid slowly oozes to the floor. It sends chills up her spine as it flows over her hands. "its cooler than I would have imagined", she thought to herself. She stares down at her reflection in the blade, and again in the ever expanding pool at her feet. "Huh" she chuckled to herself, "I never thought I'd be able to look a killer in the eyes." As she slowly lowers herself to the floor, she wonders aloud, "I wonder what they'll think when they see this?" She Picks up the knife and strolls into the house, her bloody footprints tracing her path. cracks forming Douglas Sherrill |
checking the herd- Swist, SBU,63 Two Little Pigs To me, this poem is not so much about most of the words or the perhaps intended feeling of the poem. For me, this poem takes me to a time when I was 3. My brother (6 at the time) took one of my toys and wouldn't give it back. Me being the 3 year old I was, I decided to try to get it back. He pushed me back a few times and then I ran at him and jumped for the toy that he was dangling over the fireplace. I leapt for the toy but only ended up with my eye on the corner of the fire place. This memory stands out a little more than most black eyes because this particular event left me mostly blind in one eye. So as I think about the sheep dog doing his job with one eye, I can relate. Being that I pretty much grew up with a bad eye, I've adjusted naturally to it. But I do often wonder what it would be like to be able to use both eyes. the dog looks Jacob Morgan |
ocean sunset Swede, AU, 51 Let Down Your Haiku In a dream, I'm walking down a beach that I've walked down many times before. I think it's the same one from my childhood, at a beach house my family used to rent. In this dream, I'm walking with a girl and it seems we're an item. As we walk, there's laughs and sweet talk, and I lean in to whisper something. I've never known what exactly it is, but I just remember she looks gorgeous when she smiles afterwards. It reminds me of the song Let Your Hair Down by Magic. talking about Jordan Comish Jordan Comish |
shall I betray him Masajo, LH, 88 Small Mercies She found a way to be grateful for small mercies. The section of the Fence that they had led her to was older, ringing Headquarters' Gate. That meant that the flesh had long since rotted away from the heads on these pikes, only yellow skulls remaining. No recognizable faces, no friends, family, neighbours. Her mind unbidden summoned the image of Signora Lopez, who had been caught last month for hiding an ancient family Bible. She shivers at the thought of facing the old woman's skull now, forced to stare at those soft brown eyes drawn tight in terror, skin around them sagging and rotten, once kindly smile reduced to green grimace. The skulls grinned down at her, just high enough to forebode snatching them off, low enough to be unignorable. Of course, stealing the head of an enemy of the League was punishable by death, but judging by the lead-filled bodies usually piled beneath fresh additions, the law was a rather ineffective deterrent for the grieving. As macabre as it was to meditate upon her likely fate, she vastly preferred it to living in the moment. A sob beside her brought her attention to the present. To her right knelt her husband, cheeks and chest damp with tears and sweat. He was terrified. She was angry. They loved each other, probably. They had loved each other before the League, and they said things like ‘I love you' even after such speech was discouraged. They both definitely loved their children, and their children loved them. Yet the hollowness that rang within her chest failed to convince her that she cared about the man beside her. The man who had been daft enough to get drunk on highly illegal moonshine and babble about his dreams of grand revolution to an undercover agent. How stupid, how selfish could a man be? How could she feel anything for this man, whose foolishness had brought Troops right to their doorstep, crashing into their household, dragging away their children? The house had been upended, his political flyers tucked oncer behind a bookcase now smoldered in the hearth, her illegally hoarded stores of rice scattered across the dirt of the cellar. His crime was exponentially more grievous than hers, but the Troops had no way of knowing whether both of them were involved. Besides, both crimes warranted a death sentence. She knew why they had been brought here, why their blood wasn't slowly soaking into the wooden floors of her kitchen, bodies left to decay and heads packed up to be impaled, her children turned out to the streets to live and soon die as starving urchins. They wanted a confession. From her, from him- it didn't matter. Never did. If he confessed to both political and ration crimes, he would surely die, but she may merely be sent to the prison camps. If she confessed to either, they would both die. But if she denied any knowledge of crimes, blamed it all on him. She realized with a jolt that she had been reflecting on this while staring into the sockets of a particularly misshapen skull, and instead wrenched her head to consider her husband once more. A thin band of rope- gold and all other metals had been confiscated years ago- rubbed against her fingers, a matching braid on his hand. Unlike Signora Lopez, she didn't need a Bible to remind her about what is right and wrong. She knew what it said of lying, of cowardice, of fearing death. She knew the fate of the disloyal. She inhaled deeply, the stench of a rotting city filling her with a strange courage. She would face this with all the grace she could muster. Somewhere in the city a bird cried out, the noise savage and somber. The door to Headquarters creaked open, and out strode a Judge. Before they could complete a full stride, screaming filled the air. "Dog!" she screeched, spittle spraying in her husband's shocked face. "Bastard! Traitor!" She stood, and two Troops caught her arms, immobilizing her. The crowd that accumulated to watch the sentencing thickened as her screams took on a feverish pitch. "Enemy of the League! Enemy of my home!" Her legs kicked against air as the Troops lifted her slightly, bringing her level with the skulls. She briefly made eye contact with her husband. Gaze sorrowful, he nodded once. She returned the gesture, a miniature battle cry of rebellion. He would never return from the Fence, but perhaps, if she did this right, their children would not be orphans. "Garbage! Selfish, evil, stupid cur! Greedy, fat oaf! You betrayed my trust! You betrayed our children! You betrayed all of us in the League! The League is our Family! The League makes us Strong!" and she was lost to the mantras, slogans of oppression, framed against the backdrop of skulls and Headquarters, the Palace of Judges. The crowd took up her rants, chanting in fervent, compulsory patriotism. She shone as a testament of loyalty, of the disgust one ought to feel towards spies, towards rats, towards snitches. "Traitor!" she screamed, empty skull sockets staring back. "Traitor!" when you point fingers Kaia Ball |
hollow inside Alexander B. Joy, Mayfly 61, 9 Fresh From the Garden My grandparen's house live about 15 minutes away but as a little kid this drive always felt like forever. I usually only went over to their house for Easter, Christmas Eve, and occasionally Thanksgiving. However, once in a while my two brothers and three of my cousins went to their house to play in their vast backyard. The back yard was not the widest but it stretched for a good distance all the way to a creek. In the yard my grandpa had four or five marked off rectangles near the creek with various crops growing such as sweet potatoes. All of the food he grew would be used during our holiday dinners and it was all great food. Closer to the house were some cool decorations, flowers, the shed, and a big tree with a tire swing. When my cousins, brothers, and I were there on a non-holidays we would swing on that tire swing endlessly, play tag, and hide and go seek in the large yard. Sometimes we would all bring swim suits and adventure up and down the creek. On the opposite side of the hill we came down was a wall covered with clay that we would sometimes take off and make shapes with it. Whenever we were in the back yard it was always dark out before we knew it and we had to return home. On Easter my grandpa would hide all of the eggs for all six of us in both the front yard and backyard. I always remember this being a blast and highly competitive. A couple of years later my grandpa would come up with these elaborate games on Easter where we would split up into teams of 2 or 3 depending on what he had planned. We would have to solve riddles, do relay races, and some other unusual games in order to earn points. By the end of the games the winners would be announced and given a prize of some sort. barefoot Matthew Vangunten |
empty baseball field Swede, AU, 19 Two Outs Being a softball player, it is always cool to me to think about what happens when there are no games going on. There have been times when I have drove past a softball field and seen what was going on, even though the field was abandoned. One time, our coach sent all of us a picture of two birds on the field, standing in the place of the second baseman and shortstop. I remember the caption being something about turning double plays, but I can't remember it exactly. two birds Morgan Vogels
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my chapped lips . . . Suzuki, LH, 63 Cabin in the Woods I licked my chapped lips as I walked through the moonlit forest. A light snow was falling, adding to the heavy layer that covered everything is sight. The ground around me was nothing but undisturbed white snow, and the branches of the pine trees around me bent from the heavy snow that rested on them. The only mar on this winter wonderland were my boot prints that trailed far behind me. Despite the beauty around me, I could not shake the uneasy feeling that I had had all day. It had started the moment I entered Anthony's cabin. He, his girlfriend Marissa, our buddy Brandon, and I had come up to his mountain cabin to spend the weekend. We had been looking forward to it for weeks, and the moment we got out of our last class at the U of Colorado we hopped into Brandon's already packed SUV and started the two-hour trip to the cabin. The cabin was a relic from the frontier days, and had been built by Anthony's great-great-grandfather, who had come to Colorado to be a mountain man. Even though they had a nice house in suburban Denver, his family had held onto the cabin as a kind of mountain retreat. They had given it upgrades over the years, and the cabin now had electricity and a semi-modern stove from the 1950s. There was no plumbing though, and an outhouse sat at the edge of the clearing where the cabin sat. Located at the foot of the Rockies, the cabin had the mountains directly to its rear and a pine forest surrounding it on all sides. The old dirt road that led to it snaked through the forest for miles, and was rendered impassable with heavy snowfall. This is what had happened to us. We had got to the cabin late Friday night, so we unpacked, ate a quick dinner, and went to bed early. When I awoke early the next morning, I looked out of the small bedroom window and saw that at least a foot of snow had fallen the night before. Brandon had made pancakes, and the smell quickly drew the rest of us to the kitchen. After we ate, Anthony said that the fresh snow was perfect for snowmobiling. We went out back to a small shed, and found three snowmobiles. Anthony and Marissa took one, and Brandon and I took the other two. We rode all day, eventually losing track of one another in the dense woods. It is then that I began to worry, I turned the snowmobile around and headed back to the cabin. There was just one problem, I had become lost. Somehow I must have gotten turned around in the woods, so I decided to drive around and see if I could find the others. After a few hours of this, with the sun low in the sky, I ran out of fuel. I got off and started to walk, aimlessly. Though I did not know where to go, I knew that if I stopped I would succumb to hypothermia. As I licked my lips, I noticed tracks ahead of me. They had definitely come from one of the other snowmobiles. I followed them for about a half hour, and then I saw Anthony's snowmobile parked under a tree. I started to run towards it, yelling for Anthony and Marissa. But then I saw something. One the ground, in the white snow, were tiny dark spots. As I knelt down to inspect them, I noticed that they were not black, but dark red. I quickly jumped up, and felt something hard graze my head. I looked up, and saw Anthony hanging there. At that moment, I heard snow crunch behind me, and knew that I was not alone. SUV climbs Owen Pulver • I liked how Owen's prose mirrored haiku's nature of being dropped within a moment and letting the emotion build without allowing for an 'answer'. Kaia |
summer night Lyles, THTR, 45 Sneak Attack The haiku brings me back to this past summer when I visited my friend at his lake house. After all our adventures on the lake during the day, the dark clouds and humid, sticky air told us it was going to storm over night. In preparation for this, we drove to a Redbox, where we were constantly attacked by bugs in order to pick up a couple movies. Once we got back to the house, we crammed together on the sofas and pull out couches while we cranked the volume on the tiny television to watch these movies. Just out of pure exhaustion, I contorted my body in an unpleasant position in order to fall asleep, but throughout the resting period, I could still hear the violent pounding of the rain on the roof and booming thunder. I woke up at the end of the first movie almost sore and stayed up to watch all of the second one. At the end, everyone wished each other good night and turning off all the lights. I felt more at peace with myself because I was with friends and truly happy sticky air Renee Sample |
children's day at the zoo Swede, AU, 101 The Geese Return This reminds me of when I went to the zoo over the summer. It was a hot, sunny July day, the sky was a light blue, and I was excited to see my friend from school. It has been a long time since I was last at the zoo so I was overcome by fascination of all the different animals that were around. We explored the zoo's many exhibits and ogled over all the fascinating animals that live inside the walls. Along the way, there was a new interactive exhibit that I fell in love with because I was able to pet goats (I managed to take a selfie with one as well), walk with wallabies, listen the songs and flight of the parakeets, and discovered one of my new favorite animals, the red panda. When we got tired of walking, we took a trolley around the zoo while playing Pokemon Go, and saw the dolphin show. After our time at the zoo, we picked up Chinese food and coffee which we ate at my house while watching television. At the end of the day, we were exhausted because of how early we had to wake up and how much walking we did during the day. Finally, I had to drop my friend off at the train station which was upsetting because I knew we would not be able to see each other until the beginning of the school year, which was more than a month away, but I appreciated the time we were able to spend together. Overall, the simple experience of going to the zoo made me feel like a little kid just because it brought back a fascination and questioning mindset like I used to have as a kid. two lost birds Ryan Sikora |
motherdaughter Lyles, THTR, 48 Jam Session When I looked at the page, this haiku jumped out at me and it was the first one I read. It evoked not one memory, but several, with my mom or any other woman I look up to in my life. This made me think of all the times I would walk in from school while my mom was baking and I would drop everything and help. It was one of the only times we got to talk about nothing and everything, without any real distractions. I remember when my grandmother was still alive, myself, her, my mother, and all the other women in the family would make jelly once a year. We made enough to last the entire year, in various flavors and all. We didn't think about anything but what we were doing at that moment and we just enjoyed each other's company. I think that is what the mother and daughter in this haiku are doing. They are enjoying being with each other without doing anything substantial, and that is a beautiful thing. strawberries Shannon Netemeyer |
my betrayed husband— Suzuki, LH, 79 Under the Moss When I was very young I met a man. He was handsome, charming, and powerful. I did everything I could to get his attention, but he paid me no mind. As we saw each other day after day I felt that I was ceasing to exist. In order to draw his attention, I began to change myself. I became more confident in myself and began to dress accordingly. I brought myself out of the crowd and began to notice him looking. Each day I amped up my appearance, and felt my personality going with it. I acted more helpless and brash; as I had seen the girls he was interested in do. More and more he began to see me, until one day we spoke. He approached me in the street where we had passed each day prior. I could tell today was different because the sun seemed to be shining brighter, and my outfit was the best one yet. He came up behind me and asked about the time. I looked to my wrist only to find I had forgotten the fashion watch I had chosen especially for the possibility of this interaction. I told him I had no idea, but by the sun it was probably around 1 pm. He laughed at my sun observation, checked his own watch and told me I was right. I wondered why he had asked me if he had his own watch, but decided it was just his way of flirtation. This was the beginning of the end for me. After that conversation we had lunch, which turned into dinner, which became a nightcap, the breakfast. Before I even realized it we were spending all of our time together. He was constantly with me; it was a dream come true. If I wanted to grab coffee with my friends, he was there. If I wanted to take a quiet walk in the park, he was there. I couldn't get away from him. I thought that was what I wanted, but his presence became overbearing. He forbade me from going places without him or talking to anyone he didn't know. I had to start going behind his back to even get the simple pleasures in my life. He thought drinking coffee was bad for me, so I had to sneak it when he was still sleeping. He thought my job was taking me away from him, so I had to work from home. I didn't understand why he couldn't let me be the true me, until I realized he hadn't met the true me. When he finally spoke to me I was a version of myself specially crafted for his consumption. He hadn't known that I was a hard workingwoman with friends I liked to be constantly surrounded with. One day I woke up and he was gone. His belongings were still in the room we shared, but there was no sign of him. I called his few friends, but none of them knew. Hours later I received a call. It was from a hospital where he had checked himself in. They told me that when he arrived he was at death's door. They were calling me to tell me he had passed. After an examination they discovered he had been diseased, and had been for a while. It did not look like he had attempted to treat it, but it had been slowly destroying him for about a year. That was about how long I had known him. It occurred to me that he wanted to find the perfect woman to spend his final days with, that was why he patrolled the same street day after day until meeting me. It also explained why he wanted me with him constantly, so that he could enjoy every last moment. A week later I found myself at his grave, adding flowers and mourning my mysterious man. I wish we had known each other, our real selves, but we both were constantly hiding. I go to his grave weekly now to apologize for the way I hid from him and wish he could tell me more about himself. mossy stone Savannah Riestenberg |
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