The Burning Haibun is a poetic form (re)invented by writer and poet, torrin
The Burning Haibun is a poetic form (re)invented by writer and poet, torrin a. greathouse. It is the kind of art that eats itselfto discover itself. 1. Begin your journal entry by writing a prose poem (essentially, a poem that doesn’t use line breaks and instead uses proper punctuation). You can try writing a short story about a current, past, or future event using poetic language that has meaning, feeling, imagery, and any other of your favourite literary devices. Shoot for 1-2 pages. 2. You will then erase, redact, blackout, or cross out certain aspects of the text to uncover the most illuminating language, creating what we know as a traditionai poem (with line breaks). 3. From what’s leftover of your poem, create a haiku. Take a look at torrin’s poem by clicking here.
Burning Haibun once, my mother accused me of throwing alcohol & gasoline on my emotions. once my father’s breath was a guilty verdict. his car curved inward like a palm, how it birthed him back as a fist & i became the bloody rise of crescent moons hidden inside. i skin my knuckles & smell the alcohol before it enters the wound. yesterday i read that cleaning a cut with this clear burn will worsen the scar, make the undamaged cells forget how to rebuild. maybe each scar is the skin’s blackout. each blackout erasure down to the cell. once, my father tried to collision a child into perfect. once, i tried to drink myself into blackout or erasure myself into something more poem than memory. since the birth of words we have languaged our history into burnable things. papyrus, paper, plastic film. once, i bought a box of cassettes just to watch their innards burn, flash-point from wound to wound. once, the cops accused me of lineage, my blood a guilty verdict, each breath my father’s. how we first called delirium tremens the blue devils, alcohol possessing the body. how each drink curls me into a tighter fist & this too is not mine or i claim innocence, each bruised wall, each jaundiced dawn without midnight before it, becomes a guilty verdict. my mother marries an alcoholic & gives birth to kindling. this is to say, my father calls his child a faggot & watches them burn. did i inherit this addiction from my father or the queer of my blood. once, i swallowed liquor like guilt & named this family. 11 once, my mother accused me of my father’s breath his fist hidden inside. i smell the alcohol forget how to rebuild each blackout erasure down to birth of burnable things once, i just to watch the wound accuse me of my blood my father’s possessing the body. how each drink too is not mine or i claim guilt my mother gives birth to his child a faggot & i inherit this queer of my blood i swallow & name family father hidden in erasure of me each drink mine my faggot blood
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