Haiku for Healing – Haiga as a Healing Practice
Week 2 photo prompt
The week 2 photo prompt features the work of the well-known haiga poet, and editor, Lavana Kray. A photo prompt is posted each Monday until 16th March 2026. This is the second part of the Haiga as a Healing Practice feature of H4H, which looks to explore the healing potentials of haiga, a poetic form related to haiku, in dealing with illness, bereavement, estrangement, displacement, isolation and loneliness.
The experience and perspective of a poet is unique and we want to showcase this singular voice. Thus, the individual photo prompt has no title or accompanying text.
Take a cue from Lavana’s inspirational interview and consider how does the image distil the “residues” of your experience? Does it bring to mind the yearning in William Blake’s “winged life”* with its lightness of joy and release or does it evoke what Thomas Hardy described as the “the sorriness underlying the grandest things”?** Look inside and outside yourself Lavana urges and find that “something” that will best convey what you want to say.
In the Comments box below, please post no more than two original, unpublished haiku or senryu inspired by the photo on the theme of healing. In the spirit of empathy and connection we request that you comment on the other poems posted here.
Notes
* “Eternity”, William Blake (1757-1827)
** Notebook entry for 19 April 1885, Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)
Sonam Chhoki
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Bios
Lavana Kray is from Romania. Over the years, she has won various prizes in haiku and tanka competitions. The World Haiku Association awarded her the title of Master Haiga Artist. Her work has appeared in many print and online publications, as well as in Haiga Exhibitions organized by the World Haiku Association in Japan and Italy. The Laval Literary Society from Canada awarded her the André-Jacob-Entrevous Prize 2023, for a literary text (haiku) combined with an artistic visual. She currently serves as haiga editor for the online journal of Japanese short forms, cattails. She has published five photo-haiku books, one tankart collection and a photo-haibun book.
She is owner-editor of https://ourbesthaiga.blogspot.com/
https://thehaikufoundation.org/thf-galleries-photo-haiku-of-lavana-kray/
Sonam Chhoki finds the Japanese short-form poetry resonates with her Tibetan Buddhist upbringing. She is inspired by her father, Sonam Gyamtsho, the architect of Bhutan’s non-monastic modern education and by her mother, Chhoden Jangmu, who taught her: “Being a girl doesn’t mean you can’t do anything.” She is the principal editor, and co-editor of haibun for the online journal of Japanese short forms, cattails.
Her chapbook of haibun, The Lure of the Threshold was published in May 2021. Mapping Absences, a collaboration of haibun, tan bun and tanka prose with Mike Montreuil was published in 2019. Another collaboration with Geethanjali Rajan: Unexpected Gift was published in November 2021. She organised a year-long email course in 2024 for The Haiku Foundation’s Haiku for Parkinson’s project.
Read past Haiku for Healing posts here.
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Comments (55)
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room with a view
in need of
renovation
a new perspective
healing power
of nature
I am one with life’s green voices
Though still
In my death silent, lifeless
whippoorwill’s call . . .
the old shed leans into
white clover
winter cabin . . .
dad’s walking cane
left by the door
Objects help us remember. We carry so much good from the past into the future.
These are both highly engaging poems, Theresa.
The whippoorwill ku has an underlying rural hush, punctuated by that bird call, which opens up distance. The shed’s “leans into” imparts age and tenderness, while the white clover softens the whole scene with quiet light.
Winter cabin is spare and direct. The ellipsis makes space for the absence that “cane / left by the door” implies.
Both are tightly crafted and emotionally evocative haikai. Just sharing my first impressions. Thanks for posting these.
Thank you so much, Billie, for your detailed comments. I’m very glad to read that you found all of this in my poems. You’ve gleaned much of what I intended.
Best,
Theresa
in my fall
the smell
of tall grass
broken home—
a green finds
a window
So many thoughts, so many possibilities, and a pinch of hope. Thank you for this haiku.
I really like these two verses, particularly
in my fall
the smell
of tall grass
something dearer than sky
off-kilter house
our childhood
Hi Buffy,
Lovely to see you here.
“childood” evokes not only a special place and time but also the closeness with a person/persons with whom one shared this with. The pricelessness of this is brought out so well in your opening line: “something clearer than sky”..
Sonam
from earth
unto tree unto
earth again
Interesting and harmonious.
weathered wood
broken in summer grass
still becoming
Among the brokeness, there’s a note of hope and continuation within your last line.
verge of collapse
do the trees
sense my silent scream?
me timbers are shivered
but still
not beyond repair
Hi Tracy,
Your play on the “shiver me timbers” works brilliantly to suggest that all is not yet lost.
Sonam
the forest floor
gently reclaims
her oak ancestors
deep within
the fallen wood
new growth
if I fall
let it be softly
tall grasses
Ah, soft, tall grass or lupine – worry absorbers, not just shock absorbers.
‘Worry absorbers’ is so perfect, Urszula. Thank you so much!
Your poems filled me with hope.
if I fall
let it be softly
tall grasses
I hear an echo of Basho’s “summer grasses” in your understated introspective ku, Eavonka. Plenty of Ma for the reader to engage with. This one stuck with me all morning. Fine work.
I am honored by your comment, Billie. Thank you so much. I shall find the poem by Basho immediately!
I feel foolish. Of course I know that Basho poem. My memory of exact words is troubling.
summer grasses
all that remains
of soldiers’ dreams
inevitable death
its decomposition
a work of art
To perceive decomposition as a work of art denotes depth of thought and feeling. You have honored my photo with a brilliant interpretation. We both thank you, Lisa.
Lavana
terramation…
turning every side
to the sun
*
weathered cabin
still learning to live
deliberately
*
Terramation — “human composting,” an eco-friendly alternative to typical funerals — reminds us where we come from and the connections among all life. Thank you for posting this thoughtful and thought-provoking poem.
deep in
the forest
daffodils!
deep in the forest
tilted stones
with forgotten names
Deeply hidden things hurt less over time.
my beloved privy
favorite meditation spot
dies an honorable death
beloved privy –
me and my Sears catalogue
honor you
Alan,
Love the Seats catalogue reference, taking me back to stories of the past. Bravo!
hiking alone—
gooseberries
among the nettles
back lot
the shed roof
laced with rust
wild mint. . .
where the floorboards
gave way
petrichor—
gathering nettles
for soup
This photo is deeply evocative for me, transported me back to my childhood summers in the mountains of Montana. It’s an excellent example of *wabi-sabi*, and the visual embodiment of *ma*. Many thanks for posting this gem.
Hi Billie,
Lavana sent a file of hauntingly evocative photos. Your perceptive, “visual embodiment of “ma” is an apt description of Lavana’s work.
I’m so glad that this image resonated it with you and that yoiu shared your thoughts here.
Sonam
These poems awaken all five senses through which the body perceives information from the surrounding environment. Seeing your comment, I realize that you not only looked at the picture but also felt it. Congratulations, Billie Dee!
Thanks for your kind words. To be fair, the photo did all the work. . . I just held on to the reins. –BD
You are very kind. The credit also goes to Sonam Chhoki, who selected the image from the entire folder. Many thanks.
Lavana
moldering mia-mia
a light box for pests ˜
cancer research
cancelled
all unhealthy
notches
vervallen mia-mia
een lichtbak voor ongedierte ˜
kankerstudie
gecanceld
alle ziekelijke
inkervingen
Guido De Pelsmaeker
België (Holsbeek)
Hi Guido De Pelsmaeker,
Your response to Lavana’s photo is wonderfully intriguing. “mi mia” temporary shelters made by indigenous Australians is a nice slant on the image and then aleap of association with “cancer research”.
Thank you for posting your poems.
Sonam
Dankjewel Sonam Chhoki, voor uw mooie ontleding en het begrijpen van de diepgang van mijn haiku!
Doet mij veel plezier!
accepting illness
we fall into the heart
where we start living
laughing
on my long retreat
the fallen outhouse
Hi Marlina,
Thank you for dropping by and sharing these poems in response to Lavana’s photo. Both your poems embody the basic Buddhist concept of letting go and acceptance, which ultimately brings one peace of mind. I love the gentle humour in the second poem.
Sonam
unsteady legs …
on a country walk the boulders
got in the way
spring growth …
the composting outhouse
provides it all
While dealing with mundane matters, we carry spirituality and suffering within us in silence.
abandoned home
the long lost memory
of her pet
furious wind
the silence of greens
in the backyard
There is a nice contrast between the first line and the other two. The spirit of haiku floats in the air.
furious wind
the silence of greens
in the backyard
However, the lost memory of your pet returns, at least from time to time. It has its own favorite corner of your heart.
freedom so close
a fall or a green break
along the way?
exhaustion but…
continually choosing
the greener grass
Our haiku seem to echo one another. I particularly enjoyed ‘exhaustion but’. The choices we make, eh?
We want to see if the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. And make a choice.
Hi Urszula,
A note of hope in both your poems.
Even if something “falls” or “breaks down” perhaps it can be a release in a way. And that search for something beautiful, inspiring and meaningful, however exhausting, is still worthwhile.
Reminds me of Bonnefoy’s search for “ arrière-pays, a place of greater plenitude,”. Such a hope keeps the poetical spirit alive.
Thank you for these thought-provoking poems.
Sonam
Hi Sonam,
Thank you for your beautiful and profound comment and kind words. You found more in my poems than I did myself. The word “release” very aptly captures the essence of the situation. When we write about someone else’s “image,” we are also writing, whether we like it or not, about our own.
Urszula