- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
Editor's Comments
Titles in a haibun can add so much to the richness of the piece in question. In this fine example the title takes a song from the Beatles White Album and sets the tone for the entire piece. The first line of the chorus of the song in question is: “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da life goes on brah”. That song was written by Paul McCartney, and the other Beatles hated it, and John Lennon despised it. Now comes this young man of eighteen, who sees himself as Lennon, who takes his own life, valuing it less than his ‘brah’ did. Wow, that just sent me into a tailspin. So many implications here if you have the time, or take the time. As a reader you have your work cut out for you!
Then we reach a haiku that caps the entire effort. The advent is that time of anticipation of the birth of a savior, yet prior to the birth that holds the keys to the resurrection, a rope swings and creates the moving shadows that mirror the chiaroscuro images of the artist, who has taken his own life. Indeed, this story creaks, like the beam used to end his life, through the reader as well, twisting and turning you as you connect with the story being told. If you have ever lost someone to suicide you can’t help but be taken by the skillful detail in this fine and deeply sensitive haibun.
—UHTS Haibun Editor Mike Rehling, USA
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
spider thread . . .
the shrinking tightrope
from i to thou
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
unrequited love —
the triangulations
of the possible
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
rumbling wind —
a didgeridoo wakens
to my spirit
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
night sky —
Lucy glows in the soles
of her shoes
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
winter gloom . . .
a bird folds into
its shadows
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
logic gate —
a cat smiles hellbent
with the moon
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
in memory of Madiba
amandla!
what wind passes through
river reeds?
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
setting sun . . .
the lengths my shadow
will grow to
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
in the folds
of a road map . . .
coupling flies
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
summer rain . . .
the delirium of flies
uncoupling
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
pine breeze . . .
emptiness rustles
through my sketch
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
Christmas eve —
a tree shadow inches
up Golgotha
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
altarwise vigil —
from the bottom of the well
a light at the end?
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
this summer
my friends enfolded now
in these dreams
of their unfolding
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
grave silence . . .
a dancer slips out
of her dance
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
where are you, old friend?
are you still the twinkling eye?
the echo of words?
I sound out the hieroglyphs
that carve your name into stone
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
after the storm
a heron between this breath
and the next
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
skylark on the rise . . .
a buddhist neophyte clings
to his apron strings
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
at year's end
wanting nothing else
i gorge on my tail
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
deepening night . . .
the becoming flesh
of some shadow
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
ninth hour . . .
wind ripples sink
into the pond
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- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
Taranaki rain . . .
an image of Fujisan
breaks through
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
The Thirst
For the present I live within walking minutes of the river that shapes and waters this valley. Two parks run parallel to the river's course through this part of the valley. One is called Moonshine Park and the other, Poet's Park.
Birdsong in the nearby stands of dense native bush is the leftover sound of this land from psalms chanted before the advent of the human presence. My heart burns within me as I catch snatches of the silence that the floating world drowns out catchphrase by catchphrase.
panting deer . . .
a hyssop branch drips
sour wine
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
And Yet . . .
The swell of her belly that has been progressively pushing us apart for the last 36 weeks approaches its fullest ripeness.
"Feel baby move," she asks with the easy lilt that marks this time of our intimacy.
"It is still," I whisper.
In the delivery theatre an obstetrician tells us that baby has died and must be delivered now before its body decays much more in utero.
We greet our child, resembling a blanched tomato, robed in his white gown.
first blessing —
the sign of the cross
tears his skin
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
Solstice Eve
All living things manifest their livingness by their ability to
• grow
• move
• breathe
• respond to stimuli
• eat and drink
• excrete
• reproduce
I have been present at the birth of each of my children, and also at the birth of puppies, kittens, calves, lambs, birds, insects, flies, flowers and trees. The shortest lived stage of each is the last of these abilities.
shortest night —
sounding out his name
a morepork
All dying things manifest their livingness by slowly losing their ability to
• reproduce
• excrete
• eat and drink
• respond to stimuli
• breathe
• move
• grow
I have been present at the death of each of my parents, of relatives, of friends and also at the death of dogs, cats, cows, sheep, birds, insects, flies, flowers and trees. The loss of the last six body functions more or less follow this order of withdrawal in the final hours or days.
Where in this process resides consciousness, will, imagination, love and malice and when do they leave?
longest night —
the artist paints
his white 'I AM'
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
nature break . . .
the clerk gets a whiff
of his body
- Details
- Written by Hansha Teki
- Category: December 2013
Cape Reinga
My spirit awakens to the flight of those I have known and loved who have taken the leap into unknowingness.
deepening night —
a fantail sings up
a pohutukawa