Haibun is a poetry form consisting mostly of prose interspersed with haikus or with one haiku at the end. A haiku is a poem that originated in Japan with the 5-7-5 syllable count, and the prose part of the form can be descriptive or narrative.

The form Haibun was born in 1690 from the quill of the monk Basho Matsuo when he wrote a letter to his friend, Genjuan no ki. The letter starts with Basho talking about himself and his travels, and it continues with a very lyrical prose, describing a hill on the southern shore of Lake Biwa to the east of Kyoto, the location where he lived for several months.

Inside the letter, Basho says: "I too gave up city life some ten years ago, and now I'm approaching fifty. I'm like a bagworm that's lost its bag, a snail without its shell."

Basho's Haibun closes with this haiku.

"Among these summer trees,
a pasania-
something to count on"

While the original of the form belongs to Basho, some of those who came after him and used the form tried to put it inside iron bars, some saying the style of the prose should stay away from philosophy, others saying it should not be a narrative but should be consisted of descriptive passages, still others saying it should be a narrative but with snappish language.

The modern English Haibun came into popularity with different definitions of its prose by different people, while many well-known and not-so-well-known poets used the form successfully, each adapting it to his way. This is as it should be, since haibun is a changing form, an art in itself, and its pliability makes it endearing to poets and poetry enthusiasts.

Since I like to experiment with everything, here is a haibun I wrote in a poetry slam in the writing site I am a part of.

Wild Turkeys

They moved next door during the season when wild turkeys flew in and filled the town with shrieks. All vehicles stopped; the turkeys hopped. The males swaggered and dashed; females ran into traffic to get smashed. And on our dead-end street, bent like a crescent moon, Eeya sat at the threshold knitting.

Knitting memories,
ignoring most what hurts most
purl knit knit purl knit

From some third world country she came, married to a big, burly brute. Twice her size but not so wise, twice her age too. Eeya said, "I took him with love maybe from birth, for karma binds heaven to earth. My pain is wine for the Divine. I am my mate's game, though he gets his kicks with fists and sticks."

"It's karma," she said,
while lifting her wounded head,
"and I've killed my pain."

She shut out the light, wove in the darkness with warps and wefts; not a victory true. Inside a dungeon without insight, an addiction loomed within her mind. She took to task to wear a mask, but she was so young and lonely too. Was it her fate's plot to tie her up in a weaver's knot?

Calligrapher's ink
wrote in black, a dreamless sleep
while death was lurking.

One night, I heard Eeya cry; I imagined why; so I called the police. The year was nineteen seventy-six. They said, "Please, Ma'am! Mind your own biz. We can't do much; for nowadays, it is such with domestics."

Love tied Eeya's tongue,
luring bitter ecstasy,
dark stars crowned her hair.

Wild turkeys lacked grace to steal the scene. The moon had to be full to dominate the doom. Eeya fed wild turkeys cracked corn, but she left before they flew away, leaving things in me unsaid and bouquets of lilies in gloom.

If you like to play with poetry, try this form. I believe you'll enjoy it.