Tag Archives: Haibun

September 28, 2021 · 2:01 pm

i – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about writer’s block.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Writer’s Block

Photo: steve_a_johnson at pixabay.com

“You can’t think your way out of a writing block; you have to write yourself out of a thinking block.” John Rogers

i

The screen mocked my every thought, the arctic white page blinding my eyes as snow on a sunny day, making me squint in the hope of a direction even though I cannot see where I am going. The page an abstracted projection, a freudian note to myself that the page was mirroring my inner malaise of lost consciousness. The page was not unfriendly, we dined together as always. It’s just that the ideas flew past at the speed of sound, refusing to land in my mind. Even the dictionary drowned in my thoughtless fug. But, mercy be, there was the letter i and I’m sticking with that.

circling the blank page
my mind in another room
the curlew calls me


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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August 31, 2021 · 1:52 pm

I Remember – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about first day/returning to school.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Back to School

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

“I failed angst in high school. They let me graduate anyway.” John Scalzi

I Remember

Life was to be lived, no time for study or going to school.I could do the work but it disinterested me and I was more focussed on heading down town. Besides, the roll wasn't checked other than in the morning and after lunch, the pubs didn't worry about proof of age even for the floor show where Stephanie (who looked like Stevie Nicks) in fishnets gave us all her charms. While the newsagent proprietor eyed me carefully lest I would steal a magazine (how did he know?), I read them in store. And the billiard hall was a second home, while I listened to the top forty at Mills Record Bar in the high street every Friday.

Looking back it was the girls I remember most. Rita who was cool and charming, Hedda who dealt hash, lyn who was pregnant, and Leslie who cared, Hannah who seemed ten years older than all of us, and Romy who had a beautiful smile and wore no bra and whose skirt seemed non-existent. I hated school, it was a war zone, but I loved escaping down town, and most all, I remember the girls.


the ducks all gather
chickens return home to roost
night heron flies far away


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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August 3, 2021 · 1:28 pm

Knowing – Haibun – by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse frank is hosting Haibun, with an invitation to write about August.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – August

Video: One of the many cascades along Lesmurdie Brook, Mundy Regional Park.

“In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.” Albert Camus

Knowing

The land lies like sodden clumps of wool as winter inexorably crawls towards spring and the hope of warmth tantalisingly held out like an olive branch. This has been a winter of winters, unseen for decades, with icy winds and robust storms aplenty. I took shelter for the most part, unlike previous years when winter seemed more like autumn, which seemed like summer.

This winter has left an indelible mark on me like no other. It offered me reflection and hallowed retreat from the tempest. I have waited for emergence like a chrysalis opening to the world, seeking sacred islands with new eyes. Soon the clumps will dry. I will breathe deeply of August, knowing that its waters gift my spring.

The ground is floating
heaven's tears washing my feet
the sun is smiling



Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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June 22, 2021 · 2:43 pm

Solsticity – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting the Haibun with an invitation to write about the Solstice – down here being the winter solstice.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Solstice

Photo: another typical south-west winter’s dawning over the Blackwood river.

“People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.” Anton Chekhov

Solsticity 

The illusion of time is etched as chronicles under twelve beautiful pictures, and there is a still-point right in a determined middle. I looked at this point today, of all days, knowing that this is the turning of perpetual rhythm. This is life, a moving in and a moving out, a drawing close and a moving away, a finely reciprocated ritual mirrored exactly as if dancing inward and outward movements. As I reflected on this it appeared in my mind as upward and downward movement, as if ascending and descending stairs, a close representation of Escher's fine works.

I saw the beauty of this rhythm, a meeting of joy and grief, laughter and tears, all things continually ascending and descending in this perpetual dance. And it all hinges on the short middle for a brief moment, passing quickly from descent to expansion once again. I named this rhythm solsticity, an uplift, a rejoicing as life bursts forth from the fount of nature, mirrored in the very heart of my soul, and seen in the fire of my eyes.

the quiet darkness
nothing moves in this middle
a solstice blossoms



Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
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May 25, 2021 · 2:22 pm

Luna On The Street – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun, with an invitation to write inspired by the (northern) flower moon.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Flower Moon

Photo: thelensflare.com

Luna On the Street

Luna dropped her keys and bent to pick them up, and something unlocked in the very core of me. I pocketed my hands just in case they reached for the moon, which was no half moon, a fulsome globe that lit the scene and moved a tide within me that took me to places forgotten. I gasped.

She turned, intuitively , smiling a knowing smile, as if she knew my secret thoughts, dispelling all my shadows. she moved with sighing hips, more Friday night than Monday morning. Each step a fertility dance, a cycle blossoming before me. I was transfixed. And then, just as suddenly, she was gone.

Moon cycles dark nights
enticing the blushing stars
my bouquet blossoms


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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April 27, 2021 · 1:58 pm

The Present Moment – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting the Haibun (prose + haiku) with an invitation to write about the present moment.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – The Present Moment

Photo: Patrizia08, pixabay.com

“If you are depressed, you are living in the past. If you are anxious, you are living in the future. But, if you are at peace, you are living in the present.” Lao Tzu

The Present Moment

If I try to, I cannot reach back into all my yesterdays and reclaim them. And, even if I could, all that I would achieve is a reconstruction of days as perfect past moments. So I cannot reach back and hold any moment as it was. Besides I don't want to, the past is the past and best left as formative memory for better or worse.

The future eludes me in smoke and mirrors, the pathway is unclear, no plan is foolproof. Besides, if I could see even just a little ahead I would be adjusting my approach towards the perfect experience.

The most abiding feeling I have is of the fleeting present moment. That moment, the blinking of an eye, the moment between the inward and outward breath, which passes so quickly. These moments come and go and I have learned to treasure them before they slip into yesterday. But, to be in the present moment, I have to be present. 


under the branches
my inward and outward breath
present moment held.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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March 30, 2021 · 2:34 pm

Come Join Me – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about cherry blossoms.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Cherry Blossoms

Photo: Hans Braxmeier at pixabay.com

“To find yourself, think for yourself.” Socrates

Come Join Me

Going to hell in a handcart seems infinitely better than joining with the elite ignorance of those who presume they're on for a visit to the angel bar in the ether. How can it be that we tolerate the essence of ego over integrity, where is the authentic one, where the grounded reality? How is it that we have put a gun to the head of community, in pursuit of self-indulgence?

Of course, it is infinitely more valid if we charge a small fortune  for courses that enable wrong choices to look like someone else, someone who knows the mantra. Surely it is time to self-prune, to take stock and account for the present moment? Whatever your disposition, my handcart has plenty of room, so come join me on the road to the hell that is not really hell, it is not what you'd imagine, but then, the path to a constructed heaven is just an irony of marketing, so what have you got to lose?


An autumn pruning
safeguards generous spring 
cherry tree smiling

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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March 2, 2021 · 2:18 pm

One Way Through – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Lillian is hosting Haibun with a focus on walking down memory lane.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Walk With Me Down Memory Lane

Surreal Art Work by Jacek Yerka and found at image.slidesharecdn.com

“Everybody should keep some grip on childhood, even as a grownup.” Tim Curry

One Way Through

As spring made way for summer everything seemed full and lush, even the northern July evenings were slightly longer than the ending of Hey Jude which was idyllic when sleep seemed like theft of life. But there were dark tones in this summer of light. Why was mum so frightened, why were dad's fists so loud? It was a house of mixed feelings like the edge of a wave teetering near rocks.

Sometimes there was a deep silence, followed by absence. Baby-sitters appeared at intervals, young couples whose tongues were intertwined in closed eyes of desire, though not so much before I was given a cup of cocoa and soon sent to bed.

Our house wasn't ancient, but it was easy to hear anyone coming up the stairs, so I knew I could please myself in a wonderland. So I would throw back the curtains and marvel at the light, open the window and dangle my legs over the ledge. I was lost in the wonder of peace and stillness, dreaming of tigers, Sherwood Forest, and rescuing Alice from queens unknown. This was my refuge.


I sailed the angry sea
past dark resolution rocks
you are my refuge.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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February 2, 2021 · 4:04 pm

The Drought – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about the eagle.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Eagle

Photo: https://publications.australian.museum/ showing a wedge tailed eagle.

“Fierce eagles do not produce timorous doves.” Horace

The Drought

45c and the road, straighter than straight, rolling beyond what the rusted sign advised. Blues, liquid, twelve bar, driving through this dry land. Paddocks hollow and stricken, rain forsaken for so long now, nothing holds in this dust. Crows picking the eyes out of everything that ceases to move, that cadaver buffet for pall bearers.

The gates blur in fifth, the barbed wire whispers strained songs of lament and I weep as I pass the delusion of hope trying to bale non-existent hay, the sadness of twenty bales to a hundred acres. And I weep for this place where endings complete and there are no obvious beginnings.

I slow as I see the spectre eyeing emaciated sheep. The angel of death eyes me and I nod in deference, better an ending than tortured horizons. I wave my blessing, thankful that the feathered euthanasia will ease the shepherds pain. In this moment the eagle is surgeon, priest and mourner, holding a ritual, taking death for life.


Life now surrendered
throat offered for sacrifice
feathered friend loves life

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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January 6, 2021 · 1:53 pm

I Remember – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Lillian is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about something personal in regards to a new beginning, and to include a seasonal reference in the Haiku. dVerse Poets – https://dversepoets.com/2021/01/04/happy-new-year-2/

Photo: Jasmin Sessler – pixabay.com

“Gardening is an instrument of grace.” May Sarton

I Remember

Sometimes old tricks return, seemingly of their own volition. The mind puts on front, suggesting that it never forgets, but it does. Sometimes old tricks are left in dark corners simply because their pleasure faded. And sometimes old tricks return, not by will, but by motion rooted in embodied memory. To once again pick up spade and shears, to don hat and gloves and fold into the joy of memories turning soil.

The joy of a garden is so primal, so simple, yet so profoundly felt. To rejoin my elders in time honoured pleasure is a rediscovery that refreshes my soul. Sanatorium, health-spa, surgery, clinic, call it what you will, it is healing in every way.

And that’s the thing, remembering. Remembering is a strange thing, a rebuilding, putting back together what has been lost though not forgotten. It’s in the word itself. To remember is to re-member, to narratively, even practically, put that past back together in some semblance of knowing. There’s a host of saints in my collection of dearly departed who taught me to garden and impassioned my green spirit. And, as I lift my spade and plunge in rhythmic moves, I fondly recall them one by one in this eden. 

Chocolate tilth sits
fertile in my memory,
transcending seedtime.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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