Michael describes a haibun as:
Haibun prose is composed of terse, descriptive paragraphs, written in the first person singular. The text unfolds in the present moment, as though the experience is occurring now rather than yesterday or some time ago. In keeping with the simplicity of the accompanying haiku, all excessive words should be pared down or deleted. Nothing must ever be overstated.
The poetry never attempts to repeat, quote or explain the prose. Instead, the poetry reflects some aspect of the prose by introducing a different step in the narrative through a microburst of detail. Thus the poetry is a sort of juxtaposition – seemingly different yet somehow connected.
I don’t haiku, let alone haibun. But I did write a pseudo-haibun while I spent time waiting today. Ahmead (not his real name) is the school of medical dentistry student in charge of my case – investigating and treating the cause of my now chronic jaw and facial structural pain.
First of two trains, then a bus. Wind spits rain on commuters huddled over Iphones. Nervously check for ticket. Wait clinging to umbrella.
Travel through towns, watching old factories crumble. Forgotten by regentrifyiers, dilapidated houses.
Industrial wastelands, highway interchanges, rivers and reclamation projects clack by.
Frenzy of transfer station; human streams flow up escalators. I trudge the steps, searching for ticket to scan. Gain access and wait for second train.
Cold piercing five layers, I pace the platform, dreary like other passengers. Time ticks in sighs.
Bus stop, bus load usual crazies and I, the bag lady, given senior’s fare – embarrassed and sad, I add my dollar.
Façade of elegance as pass through dentistry school to back rooms, my orofacial pain clinic.
Red plastic waiting room chairs, writing in journal, waiting for Ahmead, my torturer, my saviour, to arrive.
grey water meets sky
heron stillness perfection
the marshland inhales
image via pixabay