Haibun, haiku, or waka, all sound like tasty morsels you’d fine in a Jackson Street eatery in San Jose, instead they are poetry forms. There is something about those forms that attracts me to write them these days. I used to be enamored of sonnets, but I cannot wrangle with those any more. I think I’m pushing back against rhymes. I blame stress and 2020, which used to be two different things and are now synonymous.
I’ve had a heck of a time since early October, with surgeries, hospitals, complications, floods, and now some virtual friendship disasters. This morning I was pondering the notion that, good news, none of this will matter when I’m dead. (Well, it wont!)
In wanders dVerse with its prompt. Truthfully, the last thing I felt like doing was creative writing, and I almost just tossed the prompt into the bin, until I saw the subject: Japanese death poems or Jisei. Oooooh. Death poems! I’m feeling that. The post mentioned waka and tanka forms, which I just looked up. The tanka is a 5-7-5-7-7 verse, and I chose that. Here’s a tanka about “none of this will matter when I’m dead” and oddly enough, after my snotty remark about not wanting to write sonnets because of the rhyme, the tanka took it on anyway. It is a truly cold, gray, blustery, I-just-want-to-hide day in New England. Spare poems seem right for New England early winters. There are a couple of ways to read that “no matter.”
dimmed is the light
November will claim its own —
as did October —
only with more chill and bite
no matter in death — I groan