SPASMS OF LIGHT

Part II ~ Haibun

 

Contents


 

 

Alwana

by Geert Verbeke


Dedicated to: Jenny Ovaere, Stephan Micus & Vishnu Narayanan.


On the coast of Ranapour in faraway Circadia lived Alwana. Her simplicity was that of a pebble in a murmuring mountain brook. She knew the secrets of flowers and balm, the magic of candles and incense. The language of frogs, crickets and bees were also known to her. Sunlight caressed the seven fertile slopes around Ranapour. Acacia, red beech, oak, lime, spruce, birch and sacred ash contained the essence of the universe.


Alwana touched her Singing Bowls made from seven metals to induce trance conditions for vision quests. The sacred sounds were unified with the spirit of the soothing landscape. Alwana healed with medicinal herbs, seaweed, mosses and the wave patterns of her Sacred Bowls. In her proximity, amethyst, topaz and rock-crystal sparkled with an unknown glow. She lived richly in her modesty, modestly in her richness. She knew how to handle fire and water as healing powers. As if devoted Alwana read the signs in the whorls of shells and corals.


Where butterflies fluttered as flying blossoms, she meditated in lucid consciousness. In the sandy earth she recognised the powers that also live in the abundance of water, clouds and fire. Alwana continued to draw strength from loving attention. With an inner power she experienced the peacefulness of the lagoons, felt intensely how with its tranquil waves the sea infiltrated dolphins and turtles with lucid consciousness.


 


a deep bass

resounds with authority

she sings the blues


 


Alwana saw life itself in the flood mark. She knew about the cycle of the seasons which ceaselessly breathes new life into itself, to bring slumbering seeds to germination. Alwana understood that water must spatter and tumble down in its own depth in order to become a smooth mirror. Whilst the sea was telling the faraway horizon fairy tales, Alwana placidly observed the waves without passing judgement on low tide or high tide. In tender attention Alwana was liberated of fear. Her loving was free from the pressure of the spirit with its eternal desires.


Alwana’s modest singing about pomegranate, yellow mélilot or quince always sounded as clear as ever. Even when singing that fishes and water-lily’s are understood only by the one who dares swim upstream.Then Erbou the date merchant would sullenly stare out in front of him. Ripe rice paddies were the answer to the tender fusion of water and earth. Alwana understood, but remained modest as a grain of sand in the deepest of seas. For the envious Erbou this was torment. Frequently his hand clawed for the hilt of his lethal dagger.


Envy could not harm Alwana. Quietly she mixed scented oils of daffodil, hyacinth and benzoic as sacrifice to inner peace, scattered a mixture of myrrh, saffron and rosehip on smouldering charcoal. A hummingbird followed the fragrant smokes wreaths. Erbou cursed this little miracle. Ranapour offered a peaceful sight. Fragrances of exotic fruits blended with the sweet aroma of spices. Cinnamon, clove and jasmine were an offering. Furiously, Erbou reached for his whip. Alwana remained unmoved. The whip changed into a blooming twig. Alarmed, Erbou shrank back into the shadows of the undergrowth. His voice shaking, he exclaimed: ‘ From now on I will combat your witchcraft, break your strength!’ Alwana, knowing that loving deeds do not wrinkle the pond of the heart, only smiled...



a catchy rhythm

starts out full of energy

the wind blows



His feverish eyes filled with envy, Erbou looked closely at the lovely Alwana. She looked at him and said: ‘Lord, your wishes will come true, even if the nightingale’s chant has to die !’ A peel of thunder reverberated between the vineyards and the gnarled olives. For weeks the date-merchant sent no news. Driven by greed, he finally showed up at Ranapour’s marketplace. With a drawling voice he begged Alwana to unveil the future for him from the hazes of time. Courteously Alwana pointed out the magnificent hills surrounding Ranapour. “Lord, behold how the slopes flank undulate fruitfully in the sunlight. When the white amaranth in the desert will bloom, your fields will bear fruit. Abundance will be your season’s yields.”


Then what Alwana foretold came true. Erbou gained unknown riches and esteem. His treasures glittered as the scales of sunfishes. Sparkling precious stones were as numerous as the bunches on the vines’ branches. Fabulous riches accumulated. The roll of drums reverberated, the kettledrums rumbled dully. The inhabitants of Ranapour assembled to catch but one glance of the former date merchant. Haughtily Erbou rode past them. Ranapour wrapped itself up in dispirited silence. Even the birds kept quiet...


Ranapour’s marketplace smelled of incense and honey. Disdainfully Erbou sniffed the air and sneered: "As clairvoyant you knew what was going tot happen, didn’t you ? Be off ! Never again let your shadow soil my path." Alwana left. A rainbow coloured the horizon.Finally Erbou lived a life of a recluse in a sombre citadel. Barbarian warriors kept watch with ferocious dogs, for diamonds and rubies filled the trunks and jars in Erbou’s treasure-cellars.


Despite his immense richness, Erbou was a bitter man. Around him, he saw only gossip, intriguing and flattery. His bitterness grew. Yet once in a while there was a stroke of melancholy, then Erbou remembered the simplicity of the olden days. During those vulnerable moments Erbou sent for wine to seek comfort and oblivion in intoxication. Bindweed bloomed, bear’s breech grew, Turkish turtledoves cooed. Flowers reached for the light in the countless dewdrops.


A Singing Bowl sounded three times. Alwana’s arrival was announced to Erbou by a servant. Despise and deep disgust filled the heart of the cruel sovereign. With a crash the drawbridge came down. Two grim guards brought Alwana up. Her noble attitude radiated strength. Erbou stared at her, overpowered by fear. Suddenly he threw a golden slumber at her, screaming: “I will kill you like a snake!” Grinning, Erbou signalled his guards, grabbed a smoking torch from a ring in the wall, and dragged Alwana down the spiral stairs. With a hissing sound the candles extinguished. A smell of decay rose. Erbou’s laughter drowned the chains’ clank.


A cold wind roared. In the sombre citadel dozens of slaves were busy slaughtering sheeps and pigs. Fires blazed up highly. Dancers and wrestlers practised in the inner court. Erbou sent couriers to the farthest corners of Circadia. Horsemen came and went...


 


the same rhythm

from the lowest

to the highest


 


Drunken singing drowned the inciting sounds of the violins, dancers spun savagely.Suddenly Alwana stood in the middle of the merrymakers who shrank back aghast. An explosive silence oppressed the sombre citadel. Only the roar of the flames in the fireplaces was audible. With piercing eyes Alwana looked at everybody and said to the livid Erbou: "Lord, divide your estates now ! Then ride to the mountains. An immeasurable treasure awaits you in the highest lake!" Noiselessly Alwana left the throne room.


The buzz of voices rose. "Seize her!", screamed Erbou outraged, but nothing or nobody moved. Alwana disappeared in the night. Erbou’s guests also disappeared, one after the other. Everybody had Alwana’s name on his lips.


Erbou was silent. Over the forested slopes the morning stare shone.Erbou had his finest stallion saddled. Meanwhile he commanded his bailiff to divide all his possessions, and liberate everybody. Then he spurred his horse even though at that moment the rain lashed out tempestuously. The gale roared, and pounded mercilessly. The firmament darkened, became a fury of fire. Tamarinds moaned on the muddy slopes. Thunder and lightning cursed the landscape. Swirling rivers sought new beds with thundering rumour. Erbou shivered at such threatening natural violence. Returning to the shelter of the citadel was out of question. Rocks pulverised to lethal avalanches. Tight-lipped Erbou continued his hard journey with as only protection the voice of his inner guide and his lust for the treasure. Erbou braved the swirling rivers and yawning ravines. Icy air bit with numbness. Only when the evening haze circled the uprooted pines, Erbou perceived the mountain lake. In the dark waters glowed an immense ball with silvery light. Awe filled Erbou’s heart, who for the first time felt emotion. Despite his exhaustion after a turbulent night, Erbou was glad, though he realised that all alone he would not be able to lift the treasure out of the water. The night would have to give advice. For Erbou the night was dreadful. Agitation traversed his sleep, depriving him from the clarification of soothing dreams. Underground rumbling mingled with the cawing and screeching of the night birds.Only with the coming of a new dawn did peace come into bloom. The dawn was of utmost beauty. Trees were waiting for their shadows, shaking with well-being. Cranes greeted herons, mountain torrents babbled. The first rays of sun woke up Erbou. In the lake, the reflected image of the moon had gone...



free to paint

with a broad range of colors

simple melodies




published by Geert Verbeke for Empty Sky 2002
second edition for Empty Sky 2002
third edition in Cyberwit's Taj Mahal Review, India 2003.

copyright Geert Verbeke.




Down By The Black Brook

Black Brook Haibun

by Little Onion (Paul Conneally)


Down by the Black Brook we find signs of spring.

New shoots on the hawthorn but not yet any blossom.


A few minnows in amongst the coke cans. 


And here in the shelter of a willow, is it some child's den?


a damp mattress
scattered with needles
the coot's legs
.
Little Onion

Haiku first posted on UKKU's Spring Blog March 2006.

Complete haibun first posted on Little Onion's blog Skin After Skin.



 

October end

by Maria Tirenescu


                Today I’m free. I invite my nephew for a walk. I take him to see how the town looks in this October end.


 


                On a wooden bench,


                brought by the wind,


                a yellow leaf.


 


                My nephew, Lucian, asks me from what tree did the leaf fall. I show him the lime-tree nearby. Afterwards we go to see other lime leaves. We pick up the most beautiful leaves, big and small, symmetrical or “crooked” as Lucian says. In the park, among yellow leaves, we can see an orange one. “Grandma, this is a lime leaf, too?” “No, this is a cherry leaf.”


                We go to pick up orange, scarlet and brown leaves.


 


                Swinging


                on the wind blow,


                a maple leaf.


 


                My nephew likes maple-leaves best. There are all kinds of shades starting from light yellow to red-brown.


 


                With excitement,


                 rarely split the air


                 autumn leaves.


 


                After we pick enough leaves, we go home. In front of the gate, a big vine leaf. We take it. We from a funny face on one side of the vine leaf. We use two chestnuts for the eyes. As nose – a cherry leaf. The mouth three little pear-leaves.


                “Grandma, my mother will like what we did, won’t she?”, he asks me. He doesn’t wait for the answer. He runs to call his friends to see his work.


 


                Autumn is sighing,


    copper tears fall


    from all trees.


 


I remain near the gate. My childhood remembrances retrain me. I used to pick and admire leaves. But only autumn.




 

On the Shore


by Corneliu Traian Atanasiu


I’m climbing up leisurely the cliff. A mild silence, easy cooled by the breeze. The yellow-dirty grass already dried turns into colour of the earth.

chicory and poppies
in the dusty grass –
high cliff

Suddenly, I saw them on the roof. An uncertain number. Some five or six. They stand motionless. Like tiles. Discoloured and resigned like them. Burnt by the sun. Visited by the breeze from the sea. Only it shone near by. Defying aridity.

silence of the sea –
just glittering in the sun
lapping on the beach

They seemed attracted by a mirage to the water. The time stopped. All has always been old there. The Big Designer put them in their place. They were as mineral as the tiles.

up on the cornice
motionless seagulls –
the house with tiles

I came down then and went through the water for a long time. Bare-footed through the waves that were laving the beach. Champing as experienced with a certain contemplative delight. With the joy of the body caught in reverie.

naked ankles in the wave
dispersed in the sand -
tastes of enriched man

The crowded beach – staying behind. Extinguished sounds were floating in drift of wind. And the wave was uttering its firmness at the amazed encounter with the shore.

rumour of the beach
unbraided by wind –
the wave’s bass


(Translated from Romanian)




The Last Season


by Magdalena Dale


I was moved by his story… A man arrived at the old age, face to face with him in deeply loneliness, he lives by himself. Long time ago the children left his home for their own home. Lately his wife departed on the way without return. The cobbled road until the village has three km. Once he settled to drink away with somebody in the pub of the village, but now because of his disease he shuffles and it is difficult for him, so that he is a more soundproof man. Every day he lights up his cigarettes from the embers of his lonely heart and sits down on the wooden bundle in front of his house. He hopes that he finishes smoking, somebody will come to say him hello.




He lights his pipe
from the fire of his heartş
on one's lonesome



He is waiting wrapped by smoke, filmy by the life and the years. It is an overwhelming and bitter loneliness, because it is not coming from him but also from the others and bury him in a tomb of silence. I like the silence which fills with vibrations the space between two souls which are close, but I think it become insupportable in a such deep loneliness.




Wooden bundle
drown in the bath sun;
smoke of the pipe



I wish I could become a bird which sometimes sitsdown near him on the wooden bundle to accompany him... Or maybe only a soft sun ray which caresses the wrinkles of his sad face. The pipe is his single partner, which constantly remained close to him, and maybe the single pleasure which makes him happy in the end of his day. A white butterfly will be my thought to him, which will nestle in his hand made rough by hard work.  He can’t see it, but I wonder if he will feel its soft breeze of its wings and may be won’t feel so lonely. I open the window to let fly the white butterfly…




A white butterfly...
in the hollow of the hand
hard handed by work



 

 

An Hour Passes


by Kala Ramesh


And so, an hour passes . . .



dead body-


only the shadows of leaves


dance on her face 



My wife died--thirteen days back. To be single again, its a strange feeling that after sixty-six years of togetherness, I am all alone. 


Like the River Cauvery that swells in the monsoons then becomes so thin that it seems almost like a drawn line, my family was huge once when my five children were small--kids take wing and slowly my wife and I grew accustomed to being by ourselves. 


My son and my daughter-in-law insist that I will feel miserable in London. I keep telling them that I am ready to go with them. My daughter-in-law says "But papa, you have your temple, your friends here. What will you do there? It's a foreign country papa, try to understand."


How can I tell her that I am scared of staying alone? Won't my grandchildren laugh at me?



sultry morning


the chameleon changes


its colours


~~~


River Cauvery: One of the main rivers running through Chennai, a source of water for the entire region.

 

First published in Simply Haiku - Autumn 2005, vol 3 no 3

 


 

Le Mont Saint Michel 

by Magdalena Dale


When I arrived at Normandia, I remembered what Victor Hugo used to say that Le Mont Saint Michel it’s for the sea like Keop’s pyramid for the desert. Le Mont Saint Michel is of the biggest religious edifice from Europe.


 


All aver the word


like a albatross


looking for the sea


 


Le ported u Roy” is the grand entrance to the summit where there is the cloister. We arrived there lengthways the main street. The main street is an alleyway with a lot of print shop, gift shop and restaurants remindful of  spiritual pilgrimages in foretime.


 


An alleyway


with a savor of old perfume


anew the pilgrims


 


The benediction cloister is loftiness full of austerity. In each year someone organize promenade concert in the large halls of the cloister because the acoustics is great. Beside the wintry walls a music played at violoncello by a young musician accompanied me. The Gothic camber filled with low sound like warm vibes.


 


Among the cold stones


I am listening to the violoncello


warm vibes


 


The high-pitched screams of the albatross meat me on the roof-top. The tired sun lie down like a purplish shawl, marvelous painting the sky. I heard the sound like water drops from the loophole of the cloister. The albatross with their eddy flying like a dance of joy call back the sea. From the distance the sea approaching covering the sand with elegantly and wavy branches of water as the foot of the rock.


 


 Sunset


 over the sea and the sand


 an albatross and me


 


Late in the night Le Mont Saint Michel covered with a golden light was a little miracle. In the angle, the archangel Michael with the sword in his hand is protecting the cloister from the dragon. At the left, the wind of Atlantic and the sea foam come over the quicksand, and accompanying me until the car.


 


 Miracle in stone


 shrine of meditation


dominate the sea


 (Translated from Romanian)




Nauru ~ A Haibun

by Shyam Santhanam


the frigate perch ~
the ocean rolls along
an audible breeze

I dream of a home. Not the home where I sleep now to dream, but another distant, distant home. An island home as remote as a memory. An island I only barely remember as distant recollections - as the warmth of a wave of nostalgia once it has passed. These shadowy and elusive memories. As elusive to recall as say, the forms of a full moon's blemishes. When an artist paints such a moon purely from recall, surely the exact form is contrived from mental impressions.

On this Island of my memory, I grew a little older.

I was a shy and imaginative child. I struggled to express myself, and mostly assumed it would never matter if I could. In silent stares, I remember even now being carried away totally overwhelmed, into seas of wordless thoughts by the raw sentience of some moments. Though I can barely remember those thoughts themselves, the perceptions of each moment that I can recall, glow firmly set like jewels. These moments are my only recollection of this Island of my youth.

Like the sea on full tide in the afternoon. Like the pleasant afternoons spent walking barefoot in the sand, under a vast endearing sky. A moist sun gazing down brilliant and satiated. The ocean roaring and heaving its restless tide. The energy of the water's surface - its continuously changing relief. The surf rolling down tiredly at squint distance, where I was told the ocean floor dropped dead-suddenly to thousands of feet. The magnitude of this volume of the water, I pictured in my quiet exhaustion. Endless water everywhere - I imagined drowning. Water suspending my soundless wrestling limbs. Water, a torrential depth, over my head. Water in my wide open eyes. Warm saline water on my skin on my tongue. Water everywhere. And a rippled sun high up at the surface, casting down slow magnificent beams. A frigate's quiet oblivious flight overhead... Its shivering feathers perked up as it lands and perches from a current...

 


 

Lunar Magic

by Narayanan Raghunathan



Rainy evening fades gently into the ambiguous calmness of a grey mist arising from emptiness ~ nandiaarvattom abloom sprawls in vast splendour resonates luminous mantras in blue neon light ~ white incandescent jasmines throb in tender green splashes ~ the coconut tree erupts halfway from the nandiarvattom clusters ~ invisible the coconut head ~ the radiant saffron chethi is invisible too ~ the wall entangled with the wild creepers and yellow flowers is turning almost invisible ~ the giant mango tree far away sways in subtle spasms closes into the ageless sky ~ cool breeze punctuates a solemn stillness ~ a distant film song delicately tunes in ~ tiled roofs pile on in erratic architecture ageing in mossy growth etchings of lightnings thundering monsoon radiances in aquatic parables ~ the starless sky looms solitary all empty vast ancient ~ suddenly on the side of a distant tree my lucky eyes chance into an exotic lunar skyscape ~ a night painter’s impeccable dream come true in pristine moonlight ~

I had seen the moon in myriad wonder manifestations so many times, clouds in innumerable personifications embedding engulfing it in fairy tale passions ~ but this one was beyond all I saw in exquisite perfection ~

clouds etch
lyrics on the moon
in cool silences ~

I was watching from a first floor window spellbound muttering joyous mantras of delight ~ I felt an intense desire to share this wonder vision with someone ~ my brother Anand was sitting downstairs watching news or slapstick on the television ~ I ran to the staircase and shouted ”Anand come here immediately ~ I will show you something wonderful ~ Please come fast ~ “ I am coming” he responded ~ I called him like this only very rarely ~ I ran back to the window to watch the moon again ~ A slight brightening and I saw an ominous electric wire visible between the sky and my sacred vision ~

an electric wire
divides the moon
into two halves ~

But still the sight was beautiful enough ~ The wire became visible only if you stared too much with an unaesthetic greed ~ I ran back to the staircase once again and shouted desperately to beckon Anand and he said “I am coming” ~ I went back to my window ~ The scene was slowly shifting and the beauty was evanescently nullifying itself ~ Soon the moon was fully concealed in vague dreams of sad clouds ~ I went back to the staircase when Anand had actually reached the bottom stair and I muttered to him sadly ~

friend you’re late ~
the moon did not
wait for you ~


---

Notes ~

Nandiaarvattom ~ a white five petalled white flower gently scented considered auspicious for Pooja [Ritualistic Prayer and Worship] especially for Shiva in Temples and homes ~ The plant grows to about ten to fifteen feet height and flowers throughout the year abundantly ~ The name Nandiaarvattom has deep etymological and mythological associations ~ It is also an Ayurvedic medicinal plant ~

Chethi ~ A plant that grows clusters of red flowers with a delicate scent also considered auspicious for Pooja in Temples and homes ~ It also flowers perennially and the plant is about ten to fifteen feet tall when fully grown ~ Chethi is also an Ayurvedic medicinal plant and the name has vast etymological and mythological associations too ~

 





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