Poetry Friday: Burning Haibun

Wow, this was a challenge. 

The Poetry Peeps are tackling burning haibuns, which I’ve never attempted. Tanita Davis explains: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of October! Here’s the scoop: As invited by Poetry Magazine, we’re composing burning haibun. Not regular old haibun, folks. These highlight the internal landscape of memory, and within them, something somewhere must BURN. Perhaps it’s your candle at both ends. The stub of wax in your jack-o-lantern. Perhaps it’s just your heartburn, or your indignation. We cannot wait to find out. As always, these poems will continue our theme of writing in conversation. Are you still in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on OCTOBER 31st in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. THIS is gonna be LIT (see what I did there?), so we hope you’ll join the fun!

The process is further explained/illustrated at this link, from Torrin A. Greathouse. 

My subject matter is on the darker side (I'm sorry, Tanita, mine is not fun!) But I couldn’t stop thinking about it: I’m focused here on the lives that were burned down by Covid. Specifically, in this poem, my parents’ lives. Two people who were mentally sharp and doing as well as folks in their late eighties can do — until Covid hit them. New and horrible health problems, dementia. Steady, heartbreaking declines. Yes, living as long as they did is still considered “a good, long life,” as they say, but the last few years of their lives became hell for them in ways they’d never experienced and couldn’t have anticipated before the pandemic, a wildfire that is still smoldering. 

Here's my attempt at a burning haibun: 

Fragments 

My father, this proud man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, painstakingly readying himself for the continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, unless everything else has burned. 

This man, no longer at the top of the mountain, readying himself for the continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. Still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Everything else has burned. 

This man at the end

of life. A fragment. Ashes. 

Everything has burned. 

~ Karen Edmisten 

~~~~~

Here's what my process looked like: 

My father, this proud man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

My father, this man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

My father This man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning coronavirus (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

This man, at the end

of life. A fragment. Ashes. 

Everything has burned. 

 

I worked my way backward, from thoughts for the haiku to building, in reverse, the first paragraph (although the haiku ended up changing.) I don't know that I hit the marks for a burning haibun. The second paragraph doesn't offer enough in the way of reorientation. (In further drafts of this, that's what I'll aim for.) And I'm not sure this hits the "Conversation" theme either, but this is what came out over the course of a couple of sessions. It was, at least, a challenging and cathartic bit of writing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jone Rush MacCulloch has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

Poetry Friday: "Servants" by Faith Shearin

This poem has layers. I'm curious about what reactions it inspires in you — thoughts? I have so many! Let's chat. 

Servants
by Faith Shearin

In college I read about Virginia Woolf and Edith Wharton
and I thought of their great minds and their long dresses
and their gilded friendships which involved tea

in the library or on the lawn. I thought of the places
they traveled and the weight of their trunks
and all the ways their marriages did or did not
please them. I thought of the dogs that followed
at their heels and the rooms and gardens they
decorated and the beaches where they

carried umbrellas. But I never once thought of
their servants. I didn’t think of the cook who

....

(Read the rest here.)

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The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the lovely Sarah Grace Tuttle. 

Photo thanks to Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: October 10 by Wendell Berry

Here's a short, perfect (and perfectly-timed) autumn poem by Wendell Berry. Serendipitous. 

(Did you know Berry has a new novel out? My copy is winging its way to my house as I type. Thanks, Bookshop.org!) 

October 10

by Wendell Berry

Now constantly there is the sound,

quieter than rain,

of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright

gold, the sycamore limbs

....

(read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by 

the marvelous Mrs. B. — Linda at TeacherDance. 

(Photo thanks to Pixabay.)