Red Moon Press Publishes contemporary haibun 17 Print Anthology

The 17th edition of contemporary haibun—the annual print anthology showcasing a state-of-the-art selection of haibun, tanka prose, and haiga from journals around the world—is now available from Red Moon Press.

The new edition features 103 haibun and tanka prose that show just how some of today’s leading practitioners are not just creating leaps between prose and poem, but also taking leaps in form, subject matter, and approach. The collection includes autobiographical stories alongside surrealistic explorations and philosophical reflections. There’s also a fairy tale (albeit a slightly fractured one), some science fiction, and even some laugh-out-loud humorous sketches. Some of the haibun forgo prose in favor of free verse or other conventional poetic forms—including, in one case, a palindrome.

The 32 full-color haiga show an equally diverse in a range of styles—from pen-and-ink illustrations to computer-enhanced graphics.

The editorial team for ch 17 remains the same as for the previous edition: Ludmila Balabanova, Tish Davis, Terri L. French, Ron C. Moss (Haiga Editor), Peter Newton, Bryan Rickert, Harriot West, and Rich Youmans (Editor in Chief).

Priced at $20 U.S., the anthology can be purchased from Red Moon Press, which also offers copies of the previous ch volumes. Three sample selections (haibun, tanka prose, and haiga):

42R Mill Street

by Cherie Hunter Day

Outside the window of their second-story apartment arborvitae and balsam fir sieve the air for crows and blue jays, and hold the darkness close. Rain falling on the porch roof adds a dreamlike cadence. She walks into the narrow kitchenette, takes a small pot off the pegboard and fills it with tap water for tea. Next she lights a stick of green-tea incense to cover up the smell of secondhand smoke wending its way up through the heat vents from the landlord’s apartment. The rain picks up as she returns to her spot at the window. Two crows perched nearby let the rain trickle down their backs in silver rivulets. The sound of footfall on the downstairs porch landing signals that her boyfriend is back from his run along the river. When the screen door slams, the lights flicker. Their conversation starts softly with “Hey.”

if rain
then the opposite of rain…
first trimester

Karma

by Jenny Ward Angyal

Limping through the grocery store somewhere between beans and butter, I stifle a gasp of pain and stop short in the middle of an intersection. I’m blocking traffic and people look askance at me from behind their masks.  But in the bony arch of my left foot, no cartilage cushions the rasp and grind of certain worn-out joints. 

cuneiform bones—
their ghostly images
reveal
an ancient message
inscrutable as pain

‘No telling,’ the doctor had said, in response to my pointless ‘why’ query. ‘Maybe it’s from an old injury.’

brushing
the dust of fifty years
from the crystal ball
of memory . . .
the sweet scent of hay

Lead rope in hand, I am standing in the bed of a livestock truck. I coax and cluck and offer carrots, but the chestnut mare called Butterfly doesn’t trust the rickety wooden ramp. Instead, she makes a prodigious leap three feet straight up into the back of the truck. . . landing squarely on my foot.

no such thing
as a separate self—
one gentle tug
and a jeweled net opens
under the echoing stars