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| >> Static Item >> Prose >> Contest >> ID #782958 |   |
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New Prompt: Write a "Haibun" of at least 500 words on the following topic: "White horses in the snow." A haibun is a connection of prose and poetry, that can have the character of a (travel)diary, but also can look like an essay, or just a collection of notes. A haibun can have more haiku in it, sometimes it can have tanka's in it too. If necessary it also can have just one haiku combined with prose, or just consist out of prose. The style of this form is a bit lyrical and contemplative than story telling. It is concentrated and true. Prose and haiku are complementary and flowing over into each other perfectly. The haiku doesn't summarize the prose part, but it is a lyrical deepening of what you wrote in the prose part... it could have existed as poem itself as a good, understandable poem. A haibun is a complete work, but it leaves something open at the end. It leaves the reader thinking in a way... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (508 words) I remember that rainy morning in November when I heard on the radio that the Edmund Fitzgerald went down. I was only eighteen at the time, living in Duluth, Minnesota; across the bridge was Superior, Wisconsin, the place of the ill-destined ship’s departure. Twenty-nine; captain and crew— One sick, remained home, Forever tainted. The Chippewa, in legend, called the big lake Gitche-Gume. It has been told that Lake Superior does not give up her dead when November skies turn gloomy. That day, as the west wind blew and the rain froze to ice, the big freighter was headed for Cleveland. A load of iron ore, Twenty-thousand tons; An American pride. I can still remember the song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, the lyrics and music written and sung by Gordon Lightfoot in the mid 1970s. As I revisit Whitefish Point nearly every year, the words linger in my head. “And every man knew As the captain did, too, ‘Twas the witch of November…” The bell in the lighthouse museum has been brought up from its cold, dark grave. The men, however, stayed behind in their Superior tomb—a solemn wish of the families. A white horse in the snow But still the bell rang Begging survival. On the beach of Whitefish Point in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a lonely wreath faces the crashing white waves in memory of the ship’s crew. Bells rang twenty-nine times From churches all ‘round Corralled by grief. Many ships have gone down in the Great Lakes, their bones still engulfed in a watery grave. I ponder often of their unknown fate, hearing their gentle whispers in the waves, praying to be rescued in the gales of November. No matter your vision, Unseen is your fate-- A white horse in the snow. I cannot help but wonder about the one crewmember that remained behind the day the Edmund Fitzgerald left its port for the very last time. What has his life been like? How has this lone mate weathered? I’ve never heard a word about the poor man since the day the tragic wreck was reported on the radio. Life has not been normal With whom do I share my grief? My heart yearns for the sea. It is hard to walk away from the shoreline, knowing that only fifteen miles from the beach lays the ill fated ship and her crew. I can almost feel their souls breathing as the cold wind whips my hair, forcing goose bumps to arise from my skin. Tis not November yet As the gales restrain From their long awaited escape. As I drive back to camp, I try to remember the faces and names of the captain and crewmembers of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I feel their hopelessness, their anxiety as the hatchway of the ship caves in. Their prayers of desperation linger in my mind. The last thoughts of their loved ones. The song once again consumes me… “And all that remains Is the faces and the names Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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