There is not necessarily a title

For the first time in a what appears forever, I have had to think about writing my post. Things have been hectic and very demanding of my time, and it has felt like I was juggling puzzle pieces. I have moved interstate and for many reasons it has been difficult but that very fact gave me an idea. New move, new beginning and so I am presenting a small piece from the poetry book I  recently published. I thought I would add new book to the new mixture.

Emotions in Existence is a little different to the other two books (Emotions in Eruption and Emotions in Evolution) because I have done a little more with the Japanese style of poetry.  There is still quite a bit of free verse and I have experimented with shapes but Tanka, Haiku, the Cherita and the Haibun have a small potion of the limelight.

I love the simplicity of forms, of words and of beauty these types of poetry display. Their magic grabs at the heart and so I thought I might share one with you. There is no title as often happens with the Japanese poetry, but the style I am featuring in this post is the haibun.

It comprises a short prose and an accompanying tanka and/or haiku. Quite often the poet will use both but I haven’t in this case. I felt it wasn’t needed. The addition of either or both do not necessarily explain, finish or even add to the story but if the poet is fortunate, they capture the same thread, the essence. I hope you like it, and I would dearly love to hear your responses.

The window shuddered against the incessant pounding of water. They should have left sooner. Accepting the consequences of that decision, the occupant of the bed shrank further into the soft, comforting blankets, forcing perverse eyes away from the wicked sway of air causing trees to cry in pain. Hunching into an embryonic position she covered her ears, unwilling to give reverence to a wind drunk on hurricane power. The light flicked once; the woman uttered a prayer. The light flickered again. There would be no exodus, no escape from the relentless force of nature. She sighed, resigned herself to the growing darkness. Sometimes the solution came from waiting, from patience. The disruption of noise continued, exhausting both the human and the elements themselves, until finally a shaft of light gently touched the pane of glass. Focussed now on the beam of dawn, the woman’s face contorted, her body tightened and the tiny being slid into his waiting hands.

sharply piercing pain

and the final brutal push

first cry of life

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