2025
HAIBUN
Judges: Jim Kacian & Shloka Shankar
General Remarks
Of the 112 entries to the 2025 HPNC Haibun Contest, we have selected three winners and three honorable mentions. Many of the pieces we didn’t select failed, in our opinions, for what are very usual reasons in haibun: the haiku is not on a comparable level with the prose, or vice versa; the haiku follows too closely upon the prose, or not closely enough; the balance between prose and haiku is weighted too heavily toward the prose, or toward the haiku; the tone of the constituent parts was too susurrant, or too dissident; and so on. What cannot be denied, however, is how honestly giving each writer was to their particular story — these were truly moving testimonials to varied lives, ranging from parsing the merits of living rough to those of living behind security gates; of facing our memories of youth as well as our realities of age; of coping with the fraughtness of each human decision while recognizing that not deciding has an equally large impact. We thank you for the forthrightness of your work, and encourage you to know, regardless of whether or not we have discovered sufficient literary quality therein, that we have found human quality in abundance. There are many reasons why we might write what we do, and winning awards cannot be very high up the list. We expect that you have identified why you put words to paper, and respect that those truer purposes are a correct valuation.
First Place
Minor Chord
by C.X. Turner
spring river
stones it cannot hold
tumble away
No one told her why school felt like drowning without a surface, or why existence itself was excruciating. She learned to wear a smile, pushing it out, paper-boat thin, when absolutely necessary.
Years later, her children, wild with love, flung their arms around every part of her — the tangled words, the missed signals, the deep obsessions with tiny things. For a while, it felt like sunlight with no outline. For a while, she mistook the quiet for peace.
Then their voices sharpened. Some nights, a familiar ache stirred in the defiance — an echo of how she’d once learned to question her own ways. The weight of bewilderment settled in as they tested the edges of what was still beyond their understanding. Yet when she listened closely, the music was different.
early thaw
a flicker of minnows
in the flooded fields
Commentary
This rather technical piece of writing is skillfully managed. The parallel tracks of river/mother are handled without excessive cross-referencing, yet we are aware at all times that this is happening with the help of the bookended haiku that guide us by reiterating the river motif. The prose travels nicely between all three nearly-equal paragraphs, moving us forward in authoritative clusters, in logical steps, only to end up somewhere we could not have predicted. The tonal compression suggests gravitas, but it never moves too far toward telling. The abstractions (“weight of bewilderment,” “edge of understanding”) are neatly balanced by specifics (“tangled words,” “voiced music”). All of which leads us to that compelling concluding line.
Second Place
Between Stations
by C.X. Turner
The sick note came like a ticket I hadn’t booked, dated or read. At first, the days pooled in my lap, heavy with silence. I learned to read the room like one of those black-and-white films I lingered over on long afternoons — pauses, glances, the quiet turning of a key.
There was no grand departure, just the slow undoing of everything I thought I had to be. Some mornings I dressed, to see if I still fit into the world. Other days I didn’t bother, sinking into the abyss of blankets and warm tea.
I looked back more than forward. But somewhere along the line — perhaps while writing, perhaps listening to blackbirds — I began to carry less. Less fear. Less noise. Less care. I missed who I had been, and I didn’t miss her at all.
in the cutlery drawer
a spoon
I don’t remember
Commentary
Content was the main driver of interest for us in this piece. It asks an increasingly relevant question — does our culture require us to be “sick” to be allowed quiet? The prose, while not portentous, carries its wisdom well — it’s personal, vulnerable, introspective without being melodramatic, a useful approach in mirroring the gradual sloughing off of an old persona. If it is a bit telling, it exposes a great deal of heart, and allots more room for the haiku to do the showing. This balance has been achieved well.
Third Place
Guardian
by J. Zimmerman
What map of the grey and white eternity entices an archangel to find any of us across sultriness across smoke across fire and whose voice persuades her to accept a basket of salt water for a jar of the sun?
passing through
the cry of a falcon
clear air after rain
Commentary
This electric haibun derives much of its effect from its narrative drive, a single prose sentence that asks several questions within its nominal query. Some of this momentum is gained from the lack of punctuation, which hastens the reader along its path. And there is a reason for this pace — without it, we would need to ask exactly what is going on. We are forced to ponder these apocalyptic questions — the dissolution of binaries, the meaning of our circumstance of floating in a sea of grey, perhaps lost, or worse, doomed. Clearly, we are not intended to ask for literalness in this context, but to accept that chthonic happenings are afoot, and that whatever reckoning we mortals might make of it must come from the haiku. And does it? A metaphor of cleansing is prominent, with “basket of tears” and “rain” providing clarity, but even this remains problematic, or multi-faceted, depending on our point of view. Given this quizzical set of impossibilities, how can this be one of our prize-winners? Well, just read it. It sustains a magic of language that is undeniable, and the lack of a specific logic works well with the notion that these are the doings of beings not of our plane. If it strains our cognitive faculties, it more than compensates in tone, pace, and rhythm. It will not be everyone’s taste, but it reaches for, and, in our opinion at least, attains a sublimity that surpasses logic.
Honorable Mention
Visitation
by Kristen Lindquist
Acadia National Park, May, before the real crowds arrive. Blackbirds teed up on last year’s cattails. Skunk cabbage leaves unfurling, ferns, purple blooms of rhodora humming with bees. On a trail to the sea, pitch pines forest ruddy bedrock scraped bare by the last glacier. Resinous scent of bark, of needles underfoot.
sunlight singing in the boughs a pine warbler
Moving closer, the cacophony of a flock of crossbills shifting among the trees, prying apart last year’s cones. Here and there a fallen cone waits for summer’s heat to crack it open as effectively as any beak, unloose its tiny seeds.
sun-warmed granite slowly opening a spring azure
Commentary
This piece harkens to an earlier era of haibun that featured keenly observed, well-stated, seasonally and biologically correct prose as its goal. Such work presupposes that being in the presence of other creatures in their natural setting is precisely the subject matter it seeks. Is it only a matter of time before we find our way back to this sensibility? The two monoku are well-crafted, offering the possibility of multiple stops, and, therefore, readings. We don’t see too much of this sort of thing any longer, and it is good to be reminded of just how effective it can be.
Honorable Mention
Caddis fly larvae
by Alan Peat
first lightthrough easing rainfallcircling dovesI am wearing my Wellington boots and blue snorkel Parka, walking down the lane, past the ‘Farmer’s Arms’ to the path by the bridge that leads to Straw beck.
The stone-shadow snow on the high fells has gone; the drystone-walled fields are dotted with mule lambs. And dad’s hand, in my hand, is warm.
On the beck’s bank we are statues. Mostly there are wagtails, warblers, blackcaps and crows. But, if we are still enough for long enough, we might catch a glimpse of electric-blue. The first to spot a kingfisher wins.
the boy I was —
rain at the end of a leaf
in full sun
We make for the stream to turn water-smoothed rocks; to see and touch what lies beneath. I have learned how white-clawed crayfish make clouds of mud; how Bullheads will dart at the slightest touch.
It’s dad who finds what we’re looking for first. No longer than a thumbnail, it is glistening on his palm. He points to its case of gravel, seeds, sticks and snail shell. He tells me how it glued each tiny piece with silk.
sunset
silver clouds swarm
above the stream
Commentary
This attractive piece of idyllic reminiscence after a lost English boyhood offers an atmospheric vocabulary and a wistful tenor, with an excellent payoff. The haiku could use some work, though they all could act as standalone poems. The title gains prominence here only towards the end — by not naming the object, we glue the pieces together, and so are invited to share a part of that moment.
Honorable Mention
Summer’s end
by Alan Peat
I have come to watch the hornets become drunk. It must be late afternoon; the sky will be an unsprigged plate of Wedgwood blue; the sun will still be warm in the browning, fallen fruit.
The insects have no interest in me, sitting on an old bentwood chair by the cleft-trunked pear tree. A shallow bowl is wedged between each fork. Butterflies collect there. They prefer its height to the hornets’ floor. I fill the bowl with rotting peaches for them. Sometimes, after feeding, they fly in meandering spirals. Mostly they just teeter on its lip.
But the hornets have no safety valve; they gorge themselves until they can no longer fly, then crawl haphazardly through the grass in their stupors.
darkness falling
a drained glass of wine
on dry grass
Commentary
This is a very well-gauged and successful piece. The simple opening line is wonderfully engaging, kicking off prose that is usefully descriptive and occasionally fine. To wit: “the sky will be an unsprigged plate of Wedgwood blue”. The clincher of a haiku works rather well in its modest, self-effacing way. A less generic title could have improved this piece’s standing, but we both enjoyed its gentle humor.
Judges’ Biographies
Jim Kacian is the founder and board chairperson of The Haiku Foundation (www.thehaikufoundation.org), founder and owner of Red Moon Press (www.redmoonpress.com), author of a score of books, primarily haiku, and editor of dozens more, including editor-in-chief of Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years (W.W. Norton, 2013). He lives in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia with his partner of more than 35 years, Maureen Gorman, and kayaks when he can, which is no longer often enough.
Shloka Shankar is a poet, editor, and visual artist from Bangalore, India. A Best of the Net nominee and widely published haiku poet, Shloka is the Founding Editor of Sonic Boom and its imprint Yavanika Press. She is the author of the microchap Points of Arrival (Origami Poems, 2021), the full-length haiku collection The Field of Why (Yavanika Press, 2022), and co-author of the haiga anthology, living in the pause (Yavanika Press, 2024). Instagram: @shloks23 | Website: www.shlokashankar.com