This month, the poetry sisters faced the challenge of the burning haibun. A burning haibun is composed of at least three parts—a prose poem, an erasure of that prose poem, and a haiku derived from an erasure of the previous erasure. PHEW! What I found most difficult about this form is the requirement that each erasure represents something different from the section that came before.
You can read more about the form at Writing from the Ashes: On the Burning Haibun and Writing Prompt: Burning Haibun.
I have written haiku and blackout poems, but I have never written a prose poem. That's where this needed to start. I also tried to keep our theme of "in conversation" in mind, but I'm not sure the use of the word voices manages to get me there. Either way, this was a tough challenge, so I am happy to have a draft to share. The image shows the erasure that created the second poem. Below the image you can read the poem without the blackout. I like both forms, but for different reasons. There's something startling about seeing the earasure as part of this burning down of poetry.
On Resilience: A Burning Haibun
The ninth month burns at both ends. Morning arrives too soon, light spilling like fever across the asphalt. I run because not running feels heavier. The ground hums beneath me, a living pulse of heat and dust. I think of orbit, of repetition—how the earth returns to the same place and calls it new.
The body remembers what the mind resists. Each mile a small defiance, each footfall a kind of prayer. Autumn waits behind the curtain, still painting her leaves. The air burns, clings to summer’s breath, unwilling to let go.
Voices crescendo and pass me—strangers, certain, unbroken. I am neither fast nor sure. I am only moving, carrying the weight of my own doubt. The finish line is not a place but a threshold—thin, invisible, already inside me.
The sun watches everything. I keep running toward the part of myself that does not quit.
Morning arrives
the pulse of repetition
the earth remembers
resists defiance
each prayer clings to me
certain, unbroken
carrying the doubt
inside me
The sun watches everything
that does not quit
Burning Haibun ©Tricia Stohr-Hunt, 2025. All rights reserved.
I hope you'll take some time to check out all the wonderful poetic things being shared and collected today by Jone Rush MacCulloch. Happy poetry Friday all! And Happy Halloween!
I've never loved running, and this, dear Tricia, made me love it. Or at least understand why you love it. This is so honest and lovely and vulnerable, just lit with detail and emotion.
ReplyDeleteWhy does this make me want to cry?? That last line in the prose poem, I think. All three are beautiful and honestly kind of build to a crescendo in a way that I bet burning haibun are supposed to. So, so good...
ReplyDeleteBrava for you Poetry Sisters { & sometimes, Brothers) who tackle the mountain peaks of poetry. Your d r a f t, "On Resilience: A Burning Haibun feels wonderfully ambitious & self-aware in an important way, contrasted with the pro runners of the poem, likely in thier Zone, unaware,. It's an encouraging way to feel about endurance.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the old p.c. joy, I feel my Mom sent me that same cats bats and witches Halloween card once! Gotta look for it. Happy Halloween!
Oof. There are so many favorite lines in this, beginning with the very first one. You captured the conundrum of the school calendar perfectly.
ReplyDeleteThis: "Each mile a small defiance, each footfall a kind of prayer." combined with "The finish line is not a place but a threshold—thin, invisible, already inside me." Such truth, whether the words are about running or whatever the thing is you struggle to complete.
I'm with Liz...feeling a little teary.
These burning haibuns are blowing me away! Tricia, this is marvelous, the whole thing. "I keep running toward the part of myself that does not quit." Amen.
ReplyDeleteOh, I just - wow, Tricia. You keep undoing me with simplicity.
ReplyDelete"I am neither fast nor sure. I am only moving, carrying the weight of my own doubt. The finish line is not a place but a threshold—thin, invisible, already inside me." May I always run towards the place inside of me that does not quit. May I run the race with grace and patience like you. ♥
Really beautiful, Tricia. I love how this process burns away all but the rawest of emotion.
ReplyDeleteYou did such an incredible job of changing the orientation in each part, Tricia. The first part pulled me into the mind of a runner (I don't have one of those, but I'm married to someone with a runner's mind.) I love the line, "The body remembers what the mind resists," and it applies to *so* many things. The second part feels even more determined, but also somehow more uncertain. (Does that make sense?) And then that final pivot — wow!
ReplyDeleteTricia, your prose poem is elegantly delivered as an introspective thought, like some of the narratives that begin a drama. An example is "1883", the prequel to "Yellowstone". The line that captures my own thoughts is "I am only moving, carrying the weight of my own doubt." Doubt is a strange visitor to our souls. I would like to use your thought about doubt in my Spiritual Journey Thursday blog post. Patricia Franz is our leader on Nov. 6th and has listed doubt as our prompt. I thank you in advance for use of your realistic thought. In the grief stage, I have not considered doubt as an intruder until reading your post. Many thanks.
ReplyDelete