Rustling shadows - Haibun
Day after day, after day, after day, until one day...
And then, not even a day goes by and someone
(someone else) comes to clean up the place...
Few garbage bags: our memories.
rustling shadows –
an origami crane
through the shredder
frontiere -
o floare-n colțul gurii,
drept pașaport
borders -
a flower in the corner of your mouth,
as a passport
2
oriunde e fân,
acolo sunt acasă –
hărți măsluite
where there's hay,
that's where I'm home –
rigged maps
3
urme de sânge
pe drumul spre casă –
lup cu lunetă
traces of blood
all the way home –
sniper wolfiarba de-acasă –
singur printre obuze
un vițel de-o zi
home meadow –
alone among bombshells,
a day-old calfrătăcire –
nu ochiul e de vină
lumea e în ceață
lost –
it's not the eye' s fault
the world is in the fog
stare de război –
doi gânsaci sălbatici trag
de aceeași râmă
state of war –
two wild ganders pulling on
the same earthworm
horoscop –
vrând să schimbi lumea,
începi cu vecinul
horoscope –
trying to change the world,
L’HIRONDELLE – HAÏBUN
Une vague d’air saharien a fait sortir bien plus tôt les êtres endormis sous
la couverture de neige. Fraîcheur du ciel, déjà le parfum d’un lilas. Et un
vinyle : Jacques Brel, Ne me quitte pas. Une hirondelle a heurté une vitre.
Elle gît, inerte, sur le rebord de la fenêtre, dans une douce lumière.
oiseau mourant
un papillon dans son bec –
aigle en piqué
LE CHAMP – HAÏBUN
Quelques kilomètres de marche. Me voilà à l’orée d’un champ d’herbes
aromatiques constellé de rares pétales colorés. Aucune abeille, que des
rats déchiquetés par les oiseaux. Contrariée, je lève les yeux au ciel. Un
avion s’approche en répandant une bruine laiteuse.
pesticides –
un enfant dessine
un papillon sur une fleur
cold eggs in the nest -
so many orphans
around the oak tree
a seed of peace
carried away by the wind -
no one plows
LES COORDINATRICES:
Eléonore Nickolay et Françoise Maurice
cerises
mûres
accrochées aux oreilles -
verger de l'hôpital
Editor: Strider Marcus Jones
Haibun Poems:
The poet
A flock of sheep crosses the orchard, mashing golden overripe plums under their hooves. It smells like grandma's old hearth boiling jams. Ahead of me, a convoy of villagers meanders on the path without horizon, waking the ancestral dust from its numbness. Some people complain about the hard times, some say jokes. They know a lot about all things, and next to nothing about the man they follow on the last road, except that he roamed the hills and wrote poems...
the leaves no longer fall
at the poet's house –
excavators
Shadows
The hand that used to rest on my shoulder, no longer opens the door. No one waters the flowers and dreams anymore...Even this fuliginous cloud spreads its shadow and moves on. How desolate our walnut tree swing is! Now and then only a snail swings, or this fog, which can’t be waltzed away by wind. Some twigs snap under imaginary steps, or maybe not.
I watch obsessively the barren land, letting only a shadow rise. Always the same...
deep mist –
the bitter taste of
aerial roots
Fragility
The inclement weather has ruined my plans of mountain hiking. The path turned muddy. Wet birds watch me sliding towards the yellow water while trying to get hold of branches. The nenuphars make place for me. Daylight only flows into the stork's eggs. Perhaps, it’s not by chance that I’am here. I could find out how long it takes for indifference to become concern. People pass by, engrossed in their cell phones.
falling stars –
equally vulnerable
the sky and man
locked doors –
only the gate to my folks,
always open
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)