M
ODERN
E
NGLISH
T
ANKA
Autumn 2007
Volume 2 Number 1
Modern English Tanka
ISSN 1932-9083
Denis M. Garrison, Editor
Michael McClintock, Contributing Editor
M
ODERN
E
NGLISH
T
ANKA
P
RESS
Baltimore, Maryland
2007
M
ODERN
E
NGLISH
T
ANKA
P
RESS
Post Office Box 43717
Baltimore, Maryland 21236 USA
www.modernenglishtankapress.com
publisher@modernenglishtankapress.com
Modern English Tanka - Autumn 2007 - Vol. 2, No. 1
Copyright © 2007 by Modern English Tanka Press.
Cover Art, “Boots,” © 2007 by Karen McClintock.
Acknowledgments of previous publications are printed at the end of
the journal (p. 231).
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information
storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the
publisher, except by reviewers and scholars who may quote brief
passages. See our
E
DUCATIONAL
U
SE
N
OTICE
at the end of the
journal (p. 236).
Modern English Tanka
, a quarterly print & digital journal, is
dedicated to publishing and promoting fine English tanka (including
tanka written in cinquain and cinqku set forms).
MET
is interested in
both traditional and innovative verse of high quality and in all serious
attempts to assimilate the best of the Japanese waka/tanka genres into
a continuously developing English short verse tradition. In addition
to verse,
MET
publishes articles, essays, reviews, interviews, letters to
the editor, etc., related to tanka.
Modern English Tanka – Autumn 2007 – Vol. 2, No. 1
Published by M
ODERN
E
NGLISH
T
ANKA
P
RESS
.
Print Edition: ISSN 1932-9083
Digital Edition: ISSN 1930-8132 www.modernenglishtanka.com
C O N T E N T S
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
Volume 2, Number 1.
9
EDITORIALS
9
Varieties of Excellence in Tanka
by Denis M. Garrison,
editor.
13
Preface to
“Lip Prints”
by Michael McClintock, contri-
buting editor.
21
TANKA
22
Hortensia Anderson
25
Aurora Antonovic
28
Dave Bacharach
31
Roberta Beary
33
Shawn Bowman
35
Randy Brooks
40
Gillena Cox
41
Margarita Engle
44
Denis M. Garrison
46
Victor P. Gendrano
47
Sanford Goldstein
56
Andrea Grillo
58
Michele Harvey
62
C W Hawes
67
Elizabeth Howard
69
Judy Kamilhor
70
Kirsty Karkow
71
M. Kei
79
Joseph V. Kleponis
80
Gary LeBel
86
Jean LeBlanc
87
Bob Lucky
91
Carole MacRury
94
Terra Martin
100
Francis Masat
103
Michael McClintock
108
Jo McInerney
110
Louis Osofsky
112
Stephen A. Peters
115
Jack Prewitt
119
Patricia Prime
122
Carol Raisfeld
124
Kala Ramesh
126
Alexis Rotella
130
Adelaide B. Shaw
134
Billy Simms
135
Guy Simser
137
Paul Smith
139
André Surridge
142
A. Thiagarajan
144
Julie Thorndyke
146
CarrieAnn Thunell
148
Chuck Tripi
150
Anita Virgil
154
Ella Wagemakers
156
N. C. Whitehead
157
Robert D. Wilson
160
Fran Witham
162
Jeffrey Woodward
170
Ron L. Zheng
172
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
– Ron Zheng.
173
ESSAYS & ARTICLES
174
The Seed of the Human Heart: Writing Tanka
by Michael
Dylan Welch.
185
Feathers and Fire: Growing into Tanka
by Michael Dylan
Welch.
188
Structure and Autonomy in Tanka Sets and Sequences
by M.
Kei.
196
The Wishing Stone
(in memory of Herman Ward) by
Alexis Rotella.
203
BOOK NOTES & REVIEWS
204
tiny droppings
by Zane Parks; a chapbook.. Note.
205
Five Lines Down: A Landmark in English Tanka.
Edited by
Denis Garrison. Original Editors: Kenneth Tanemura
& Sanford Goldstein. Note.
206
Sixty Sunflowers, Tanka Society of America Members’
Anthology for 2006-2007.
Edited by Sanford Goldstein.
Note.
207
Tanka Teachers Guide.
Modern English Tanka Press &
the Tanka Society of America. Note.
208
The Dreaming Room: Modern English Tanka in Collage and
Montage Sets.
Edited by Michael McClintock and Denis
M. Garrison. Note.
210
/moonset/, THE NEWSPAPER
. Edited by an’ya. Note.
211
Annette Mineo: Two Reviews
—
empty baskets
and
six
sunflowers & an inch worm
. Chapbooks reviewed by M.
Kei.
216
Ogura Hyakunin Isshu : 100 Poems by 100 Poets
by Fujiwara
no Sadaie (Fujiwara no Teika), Hindi translation and bi-
lingual publication by Dr. Angelee Deodhar. Reviewed
by the editor,
MET
.
221
Contributors
231
Acknowledgements
232
Tanka Venues, with abbreviations
236
Educational Use Notice
237
Advertisements
Cover art , “Boots,” by Karen McClintock.
7
E D I T O R I A L S
8
9
Varieties of Excellence in Tanka
As an ardent aficionado of tanka, like many of our readers, I
collect books, journals, etc., of Japanese (and other) tanka in
English translation and of tanka written in English, and I search
the internet and bookstores for more of the same on a regular
basis. Having read thousands of tanka with care and attention,
I am ever more aware how foolish an the idea it is that any one
tanka could be the very best, the acme and epitome of the
purest tanka in English. With all due deference and respect to
Basho’s froggy old pond, the idea of such perfection
presupposes a stereotypical and formulaic fashion of writing, in
which the closest approximation of the agreed-upon standards
will be celebrated as that genre’s highest achievement. Tanka is
better than that. Actually, all genres of poetry are or should be.
It is very obvious, from the work published in many venues,
that poets writing tanka in English have some consensus
amongst them regarding the essentials of tanka. On the other
hand, the opposite seems readily apparent in many discussions
of tanka in which some particular feature is dissected with a
view to development of standards. I speak of features such as:
line length, syllable-counting, punctuation and capitalization, the
use of phrases versus normative sentence syntax, and so forth.
Arguments are made on the basis of tradition, of poetic
freedom, of exact translation, of the need for differentiation,
and of the need for the development of serious tanka criticism
of tanka written in English. All have their merits. Yet very little
can be agreed upon, in theory. It is in practice, in the poetry
itself, that the breadth, the depth, and the scope of tanka are
manifested.
In my first editorial for
MET
, I specified that the journal is to
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
10
be a venue in which tanka poets can showcase their various
styles. I said “We want to give space to the widest range of
tanka because it is such a new form in English. Only by
publishing the full panoply of English tanka, will we ever
discover its particular place in the English lyric tradition. While
there are many centuries to rest upon for Japanese tanka poets
(and they, nevertheless, are continually innovating), English
tanka is less than a century old and needs plenty of room to
grow and find its feet in the English language.” After five issues,
I can see this plan working out in the pages of
Modern English
Tanka
. The variety is there. So now the question becomes what
to make of that variety. It is my contention that tanka provides
a broad palette of techniques to poets; that it is at the same time
a genre of very carefully chosen words, approaching the
imagistic minimalism of haiku, and also immensely flexible and
capable of tremendous scope.
Beginning with this issue of
Modern English Tanka
, I am making
selections from the accepted submissions to be highlighted for
special attention to the many varieties of excellence in tanka.
These editor’s choice poems will be printed on the back cover
of the print edition of the journal. This is not a contest; there is
no criterion other than excellence. From this issue, I have
selected poems by Hortensia Anderson, Jack Prewitt, and
Chuck Tripi, discussed briefly below in no particular order.
the dark summer sky
pours a stream of stars
into a stone bowl;
their light trembles at the
edge of overflowing
— Hortensia Anderson
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
11
This poem is an exquisite exemplar of tanka dealing with the
wonder of the natural world. It is a lyric paean to starlight on
both the macro and micro levels; the transition is smooth as
glass. The ending couplet exhibits the keen observation of
Anderson’s poetic eye that both sees the detail and imbues it
with significance. Poems such as this show great promise for
the use of tanka in reviving the English lyric tradition.
in surf rip
at a lonely beach
in playful eyes
of a neighbour’s wife
that’s where it lurks
— Jack Prewitt
Prewitt’s poem maximizes the potential of “five phrases on five
lines” to create a delightful tanka of wit and wisdom. The most
important word in the poem is not said, but is unmistakable:
“danger.” This is a classic use of the rhetoric of omission. The
double utility of the second line is an unusual and very satisfying
pivot. This tanka serves the function of fable: communicating
moral and survival guidelines in a most memorable manner and
with remarkable brevity.
I shall not falter
closing my eyes, worlds go dark
sight sound scent taste touch
generations come and gone
cry out against faltering
— Chuck Tripi
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
12
Here we have a classic 5-7-5-7-7 poem that demonstrates the
potential of tanka to convey a powerful message. There is not
an extra word in any line. The third line is notable for carrying
off a difficult trick in tanka, a list. This list is unlike most others
in that it is exhaustive. The repetitiveness works to convey the
gravity of the content, like the tolling of a bell. This poem is a
cri de coeur, an inspirational anthem of endurance. It is a fine
example of the use of the full 31 syllables for a tanka in English.
It might sound too long to Japanese ears, but it is brief enough
for English ears.
Minimalist haiku-like tanka, tanka that replicate the length of
Japanese tanka, full-count 31-syllable tanka, they all have their
uses and all can produce excellent poems.
—
Denis M. Garrison, editor
August 1, 2007
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
13
What makes tanka in English work? Poetry is not a machine. Why do we
always ask “How does it work?” This essay, Michael McClintock’s preface to
a new collection by Alexis Rotella,
Lip Prints
, is offerred here as another way
to approach, evaluate, and understand the tanka experience and the nature
of the poet’s investment in its content.
Preface to
Lip Prints
Sophisticated and witty, classical and contemporary,
Lip Prints
is a subtle and scintillating collection of poems. Alexis Rotella
is a poet of resilient and unblinking intelligence. Her poetic
vision is like a bellows, expanding and contracting effortlessly
from a discussion of Dark Matter by men in party hats to a
canary’s song at dusk. Her range incorporates anecdote and
irreducible detail, lyric meditations, and sly memoir with equal
facility. Thematically, Rotella deals with big questions and
addresses big issues—time and consciousness, individual will
and social conformity, affliction and reverence. While we smile,
frequently, there is serious discovery going on here, on every
page, in every poem.
Colors, Range, and Register
Alexis Rotella writes with intellectual and emotional energies
that we as readers can draw upon even as they frequently take
our breath away. The colors of Rotella’s moods and tones are
variable and vivid. The range of her settings, situations, and
characters is large and ever-changing. From poem to poem, her
voice refuses to come to rest in any single, dominant pitch or
register. By turn confessional, satirical, comic, tender, serious
and reflective, she shares with us a world in which abject grief
is a vision on a mountain road, where pink flowers are nailed to
a cliff amid ribbons the color of wind. A parable of social
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
14
injustice is captured in crystalline clarity at a candy store, where
two black boys at the comic rack proclaim their love for Lois
Lane. The passage of time is a moon-faced man on a ladder
washing the face of a clock on New Year’s Eve. Personal
epiphany is being eleven years old in geography class and
discovering the smell of onions under one’s arms. In the
headlong rush of comical sketches we are surprised, and
delighted, by tanka such as this, written in the classic style:
House filled
with moving boxes,
I sit in the sun
and for the last time
listen to the quail.
Such poems appear throughout and act as a necessary leavening;
the cycles and rhythms of nature lend perspective to the human
stage. They become another source of understanding, a release
from the din.
Imagination and Knowledge
This is a book about human behavior—our own and the other
guy’s—and very much about contemporary American life,
values, expectations, and pretenses. These poems are not,
however, about inferior or superior manners, status or
condition. For all their razor-sharp witness of foible and
weakness, there is not a curt or acerbic line here. These poems
reveal a huge heart, and take us down the road of humility, past
disappointment and weariness. They move us into the possibili-
ties for forgiveness and release, a vaster world than we imag-
ined, where obstacles and barriers and losses become the means
by which the heart overcomes alienation, self-difference, and
displacement.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
15
With what confidence and glee the poet declares:
No use trying
to figure me out;
everything I
write is fiction—
all of it true.
Alexis Rotella creates a stimulating dialogue with herself and
with us on the crucial role of the poetic imagination in shaping
the identity of
who
it is that she (and each of us) comes to know
as “me”. For her, the imagination is knowledge, as are also the
dream and the instincts that figure in and inhabit the
subconscious. We are both the guest and host of these
visitations, which in their turn are the yin and yang of personal
memory—the record of our existence. It is this understanding
of the character and resources of “fiction” that Rotella is talking
about, a creative adventure that may be made to contain the
truth of ourselves. Somehow, by naming the obstacles, Rotella
moves beyond them, and we with her, bringing forward into
our life a purpose not contingent on the presence of obstacles,
barriers, and other negatives that inhibit us.
Premonition of the Past, Memory of the Future
Lip Prints
is a sustained effort to uncover and retain the
forgotten essence of one’s past: in this sense, the poems are
histories—such histories as are given in the novels of William
Faulkner and Toni Morrison. Remarkably, that effort includes
both premonition of the past and memory of the
future—products that issue from consciousness. Again and
again, Rotella shows us how the past or future arrives as if in
response to a new and dimly comprehended shift in the
structure of her (and our) human relationships and perceptions:
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
16
From the past into the present comes this poem:
Once you wanted to know
everything about me;
yet now I hear you asking
the same things of someone
younger, prettier.
From the future into the present comes this poem:
Tomorrow,
my beautiful field
of Queen Anne’s lace,
you will become
a parking lot.
In these poems, time shifts and becomes a seamless continuum;
temporal distance is annulled. Sometimes, the power of long
subjugated influences is reactivated by the shift from present to
past or future.
Stepping back from the anecdotal detail, we can observe how
Rotella uses her poetry to explore the need of the present to
recapture the truth of the past and, in so doing, to make it live
in some transformed, practical fashion. For instance, Rotella is
repeatedly butting up against and wresting her destiny from a
conformism that threatens to overpower her:
The relative who said
it will never bloom—
Don’t listen to her
I whisper
to the moonflower vine.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
17
If conformity wins,
even the unborn and even the dead
will not be
safe. In this remarkable poem, traces of familial authority from
a past of unrecorded depth become an image of destiny. This is
the essence of transformative visioning: The past ceases to be
really past and forms an enduring configuration with the
present. With that combination we make our future, whatever
it is to be. This poem is a moment of calling for the woman,
determining the path of her life. It is about the founding of
character and the coming to consciousness.
Identity, History, and Consciousness
The poems in
Lip Prints
bring to the fore as full a consideration
of the elements of personal identity, history, and consciousness
as I’ve ever read in tanka literature. As such, they are a locus of
reflection and meditation, vehicles of discovery that deftly move
from origins and attitudes to outcomes and ends.
Lip Prints
is a grand (and successful) experiment in the
confluence and self-organization of ideas, emotions, and human
experience. As a poet Rotella is adept at crossing the boundaries
between the real and imagined, the present and past, the
conscious and subconscious, the ephemeral now and the eternal
stillness—above all, between the understanding of the mind and
the knowledge of the heart. The observed and unobservable are
both presences. Their incarnations and shadows inhabit every
page of this book as surely as this cat haunts this house:
Our white cat
gone seven years
and still
her light
in every room.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
18
So rendered, the world in these pages is of a single piece, a
unitary consistency. So carefully have these poems been
anchored in the universals (that open sea!) of human psychology
that one can almost feel the heat-waves rising as historical,
social, cultural and linguistic boundaries evaporate. This kind
of intimacy and breadth is no small achievement, especially in
short form poetry. Though only five lines each, there is little or
no sense of minimalism here, no sense of the lacunae. These
poems are full of life and are, for all their brevity, fully
expressed.
Lip Prints
today, right now, has no equal in American
tanka literature.
About the anxieties that plague daily life—our relationships, the
food we eat, the jobs we work, the displacement we
experience—these poems deliver not so much a culmination but
an indispensable, immensely valuable reason to relax our angst,
draw away from our clutching fears, and get on with our lives.
This book is, then, an invocation, a kind of Book of Life, full of
truth that grants us forgiveness and a release. To the great
increase of our joy, with release comes closure.
The Face Behind the Face
While much of what is written here is hilarious, the humor is
not that of pratfalls and slapstick but classic sobriety and,
therefore, steps carefully along a darker seam of experience that
feels like, and probably is, the tragic presence—the
comedienne’s ever-present “doppelgänger,” the double-walker
glimpsed uneasily in peripheral vision, the face behind the face,
the hurt behind the clown’s grin.
Rotella is a master of the anecdote and pivotal, all-important
detail. She is also the master of an American diction that is clear,
direct and, frequently, gleefully laconic—yet not severe, not
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
19
even judgmental. These gifts she has seamlessly wedded to the
strengths that are inherent in tanka literature: Brevity, apposite
phrasing, the asymmetry of short and long lines that are so well
suited to the patterns of everyday speech, the language of
conversation. What is not said is as important as what is said.
But it takes a poet to make that combination work. It takes a
poet to make us hear the unspoken and feel its weight, and to
experience the almost mystic osmosis of the whole thought and
the emotions associated with and attendant to it, arising
scent-like from the words on the page. Rotella is not a
demanding poet but a lucid one.
Structure, Form and Genre
Something needs to be said about the structure of this
collection. From the first poem to the last, the poet has carefully
ordered the whole. Do not miss the pleasure of reading this
book from start to finish in the sequence it is given—it is very
much like reading an extraordinary novel. There is a story here,
told in a way only the tanka could achieve. That being said,
Rotella’s world and the people who populate it will not be
diminished if you pop through any window or door on any page
and enjoy a visit. Read in snatches or randomly, as a meditation
or as a page-turner, each poem stands alone even though it is
also a brush-stroke in a painting of a single, seamless vision.
What these poems share and don’t share with the classic waka
and tanka of Japan, with the sub-genres of
kyoka
and haiku’s
raucous little cousin,
senryu
, much less with the work of other,
contemporary tanka poets, are all subjects of value but better
handled elsewhere. To enjoy these poems, to eat them in all
their sweetness and tartness like fruit on a platter, you need
know nothing about “tanka” at all. Form and genre are no
barriers here; the fact that most of these poems are tanka, and
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
20
very good tanka indeed, hardly matters when it comes to
experiencing what is written here. The issues of form and
content that swirl around in the world of contemporary tanka
studies are as inevitable as they are immaterial to what makes
this book such a good read. Rotella’s work in the tanka is that
of a creative virtuoso.
Lip Prints
, for what it offers and observes
with such delicious, unerring precision, transcends all those
categories of genre and specialized reader’s interests because it
achieves what the best art always achieves: A full and
recognizable expression of its subject matter.
In this extraordinary record of life, there is no beginning,
middle, or end. That is the wonder of the achievement here.
There is the force of life as the poet has seen and shaped it and,
somehow, it feels ageless.
—
Michael McClintock, contributing editor
September 2007
NOTE:
Lip Prints: Tanka and Other Short Poems 1979-2007
by Alexis Rotella. Preface
by Michael McClintock. (Baltimore: Modern English Tanka Press, 2007).
160 pages, 6" x 9", perfect bound and hardcover editions available from
www.Lulu.com/modernenglishtanka and from major booksellers; or order
from the publisher at www.modernenglishtankapress.com.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
21
T A N K A
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
22
Hortensia Anderson
the girl watches
through a hole in the shoji
the world opens
as the couple makes love
her eyes grow round
how I try to keep
my broken heart in shadow
yet this moon
that lights my loneliness
shines on their first embrace
for my deaf niece
the waves break in silence—
yet I see her dance
the rhythm at the shoreline
ebbs and flows through her feet
without a word
remaining between us—
with a sharp knife,
I cut the soft yellow peach
through the ragged bloody pit
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
23
Hortensia Anderson
this winding path
that we followed years ago—
apricot in bloom;
the petals touch each other
the way you once touched me
such slender clouds
race across the moon—
in our minds,
a silk sheet drawn over curves,
reveals the lover’s body
on the shoreline
before my bare feet reach them—
gulls leave prints
that stay in my memory
after waves wash them away
the sun sinks
in the purple dusk—
wild geese fly
as if chasing the last blue
remains of earlier dawn.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
24
Hortensia Anderson
scattered —
blue clematis petals
across the lawn;
curved remnants of sky
glow through twilight shadows.
reaching down
over the sides of the boat:
I dip my fingers,
touching the reflection
of the highest leaves.
the dark summer sky
pours a stream of stars
into a stone bowl;
their light trembles at the
edge of overflowing
she brings her daughters
with a basket of peaches—
how they have ripened;
each one so curved and sweet
with a faint blush on soft flesh
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
25
Aurora Antonovic
flameflower
spreads across the grass
lighting it with beauty . . .
for the third time
I revel in his letter
throat sore
and too weary to
grocery shop
I eat a dinner
of whipped cream
planning a wedding
after all these
orphaned years . . .
do traditions matter
to those who have no past?
winter’s beach
the waves capped
with ice
underneath your grasp
I resisted stagnancy too
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
26
Aurora Antonovic
while I
was sick, he did
my laundry
now back at work
my too-tight blouse
autumn branches
picked bare in
barren weather
I’m never hungry
anymore
suddenly autumn
yesterday’s leaves swept
in the gutter . . .
I always thought I’d have time
to say good-bye
a box of chocolates
she can’t eat
slippers
she’ll never wear
what to send to a dying friend
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
27
Aurora Antonovic
receiving a reprimand
from my boss
this Monday morning—
the mad urge to tell him
he’s misspelled “inattentiveness”
when we first met
he spoke in eight
languages
now four years later
he greets me in a new dialect
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
28
Dave Bacharach
soon to be
mosquitoes wriggle
in the rain barrel
which of them, I wonder
will drink my blood
too eager
to open the Blues disc
I ruin it—
must have been a song
on there about me
I pulled
daisies off the lawn
all I remember
of Grandfather’s
funeral
stones
in my gall bladder
like buckshot
me who
doesn’t even hunt
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
29
Dave Bacharach
I bury
the last goat
in my garden
one day I’ll thank her
for big potatoes
sick, frail
he thanked me so much
for my visit
now he’s well, strong
and full of hate
a tiny spider
jumps across my desk
and is gone
on the road outside
car after car
two marriages
kids grown
gone off
now just me
and the big maples
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
30
Dave Bacharach
he calls
to tell me about
his big raise
the son who once cried
when I ate raw clams
a silver cable
brings the internet
and T.V.
but cuts in two
the sunset
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
31
Roberta Beary
after the fire dies
you sweep the ashes
into my dustpan
which of us i wonder
will be the first to go
i fight an urge
to ask them
how to make love last
old couple holding hands
where the waves break
after the third drink
he asks me
do i wear my wedding ring
to keep away
men like him
she swears
she can stop
any time
. . . the sudden pop
of an ice-cold beer
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
32
Roberta Beary
as we tiptoe
among early lilacs
no one mentions
purple bruises
or men who hit
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
33
Shawn Bowman
the children
gathered around
a broken bird
saved me
from killing it
if we could stack
our time together
head to toe,
I would live
my life again
for Amber
when I was young
I wasn’t afraid
to die—
now that she’s young,
Lord, see me through
in our next life
I will be your father—
what did I know
asks mother
as I prepare her bath
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
34
Shawn Bowman
we are so close
that my mouth stays shut,
fearing
that if it should open
I would kiss your skin
with forefinger
and thumb
squeezing the pen—
this pressure
to write
it is with two hands
that I set you down,
this is where I am,
this tanka
is my badge of today
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
35
Randy Brooks
stars over
the dance floor
don’t my baby
look good
coming after me
endless rows
of weeds
between the beans
ah, the whole long day
with my lover
silent tonight
open up
open up
I know you know
I’m no stranger
well gone dry
this thirst,
a thirst
for a kiss
from you
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
36
Randy Brooks
another knot tied
into her clover
necklace
she repeats
the spell of his name
black cat bone
and a mojo
tooth
who’s gonna mess
with you?
Route 66
one mile, two
how many miles
till I’m back
with you?
the Andrews sisters sing
from a convertible
my lover
shakes her curls
no way
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
37
Randy Brooks
blue neon
softens your hair
gonna sing this once
get drunk and tell
everyone I know
friday night football . . .
that freckle-faced
clarinet winked
at me
oh yes she did
a long winter
at her hospital bed
side
a hand in the hand
of the one
a mayfly body
washes up
on the shore
not a flutter left
oh my soul
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
38
Randy Brooks
shrimps and rice
at the beach cabana
her voice goes sultry
to sing
c’est si bon
blueberries
in the kitchen sink
she closes her eyes
to hear it
yes, the jenny wren
first moon
she takes
her mother’s hand
to walk
with grace
dumbfounded
under the moonlight
last night
she’s so smart
in her sunny kitchen
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
39
Randy Brooks
rain
on the window
talking
to myself
for you
I check
my flight
boarding pass again
destination?
your arms
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
40
Gillena Cox
gentle rain
swaying with the wind
the leaves on a twig
some holding raindrops
to quench a thirsty sun
the rain
before the kiskadee’s song
at dawn
i close my windows
and sink into this coolness
first rains
on a sweltering hot day
in May
even the caladiums
refused to signal the change
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
41
Margarita Engle
bookstore
travel section
a random
gathering
of armchair expatriates
dusk
in the mountains
music
a woodpecker’s rhythm
melody of meadowlarks
thorny shrubs
all around the deserted
campground
tent caterpillars emerge
from their silky hammocks
migration
the sound of wings
overhead
as waves of blackbirds
leave me behind
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
42
Margarita Engle
wilderness
I hike without
a watch
or a map—the beauty
of familiar trails
asymmetry
the balance
of nature
oddly shaped trees
pruned by goats
Arbor Day
a scrub jay
pushes
pecan seeds
into dry soil
rainy
Cinco de Mayo
the smiles
of children dancing
in wet costumes
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
43
Margarita Engle
cause and effect
while a neighbor’s rooster
lifts the sun
with his song
my sadness turns into a poem
perched
on a pedestal
above
modern graffiti
the marble angel . . . serene
if six percent
of a life is lost
in dreams
why do I feel like sleep
is a century gained?
beneath
the white wings
of geese
a migration
of shadows
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
44
Denis M. Garrison
deadly April . . .
war rages on, blind to life
once-greening trees lie ’round
a tattered lily
reflects in the soldier’s still eye
it is
my barren joy
to have no son
to send away to war . . .
a final wound to wear
mayflies
you swarm and die
in days
I will not pity you
I am the childless one
ache,
o, heart of mine—
I am no stone
hearts have room for joy
but sorrow’s in the blood
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
45
Denis M. Garrison
why dread
death’s grim frontier?
youth is mere memory . . .
I have learned the ways of pain
and yearn to know what lies beyond
and when
the sand runs out?
the stillness
of the hourglass
and I are one
Pagliaccio,
you came so close . . . so close
but topsy-turvy!
take agony for granted—
then laugh in its bloody face
chasing pleasure
I misspent my youth
joy is free for asking
at last I’m making progress
as a student of suffering
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
46
Victor P. Gendrano
the autumn wind
scatters the dried leaves
in the family photo
her face is gradually
and slowly fading
the flower’s essence
lingers long after
it’s bloom wilts
remembering the lives
she touched on earth
sitting alone
on a park bench
this misty day
she rereads his last letter
still damp with tears
spring advent
I set free the butterfly
from the windshield
my only daughter
turns eighteen
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
47
Sanford Goldstein
quintessential self: a tanka cluster
trying to find
the quintessential
self,
I shuffle through
40,000 lines down
I remember,
Alan Watts, what you once said
about knees and standing:
the self that sits and the self
that stands—both different
wanting
my friend’s textured stutter,
I look down
on these five lines
down
I have hovered
along some midnight
chain,
sometimes with desire,
sometimes with an indifferent moon
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
48
Sanford Goldstein
the Zen master
and the thing-in-itself,
and always
this mind
across a winter field
the constant’s
a non-commital—
I walk
hands-tied
beyond self, other
at odd
cocktail party
corners,
a dissection of the world
diagonal
they have decided
my mourning—
fog seeps through
this February light
to outline a tree
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
49
Sanford Goldstein
along
the contour of now
a millennium
between last night’s shadow
and this cup in my cafeteria hand
tropes
or gestalt,
these summer-day lines
spiral-waver
in the poet’s corner
again—
and this time to my kid—
it boils down to
folding sheets, socks,
the midnight furnace shuddering
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
50
Sanford Goldstein
pathetic fallacy: a tanka cluster
bluer
on this day of disappointment
the blue
morningglories
of Sausalito
where’s
that trickster sun
I’ve paid for
along this Florida
coast?
not quite
a May madness
in this wind
tolling
young! young!
this summer world
piling up
its too luxurious
weight
on this temporary flesh
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
51
Sanford Goldstein
the smell of August
telling
this garden-me
the world’s
a transitory tease
November,
you offer this rain
and temporary snow
and a light
fading toward empty
today’s awakening
and this December cloud
with its gray length
reminding me
age is a pendulum
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
52
Sanford Goldstein
and again . . . tanka: a tanka cluster
prepared
for longer flight,
yet
still held down
by these lines
open them up
to forty, fifty sounds
and even ten lines down,
and still, still
this nutshell world!
she sings
to make them chant,
soar—
I have
only these five lines down
back
at the old table
where
these tanka
are grounded
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
53
Sanford Goldstein
tanka,
you appeal
to this utter common-
place-ness
of now
a pile
of folded
cafeteria
napkins—
and this tanka form!
ordinary lines
for ordinary
thought—
this tanka
world
each night
I register
the long summer
silence
the thick distance
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
54
Sanford Goldstein
tonight’s
created
me
typical
and momentary
how easy
tonight’s spill
as if each line
knew
where it had to go!
these five lines down
a thick synecdoche
confession—
man
living/dying
all in caps
that poem
had a certain force—
I want something large
in small strokes five lines down
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
55
Sanford Goldstein
and what
if this anguish
were
a perfect
thirty-one?
I try
to cut
through bone
to this bare
now
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
56
Andrea Grillo
A New Moon: a tanka sequence
in the land
of spirits and goats
amber dusk
and sultry youth . . . I dance best
to the throb of lapping waves
the sun sets
on day-warm stone steps
and peacocks dance
who’s to know this moment
is for life long
heat rises
scents linger low
night air and the moon
so full—a longing
deep beyond all need
as I age toward crone
the inside-out beauty
of the new moon
seduces the quiet
in my life
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
57
Andrea Grillo
autumn nights
guitar chords drift by
and softly suggest
leaving for the womb
a dark moon and the rain
november winds
fade into winter’s
lush silence . . .
moss grows on wood and stone
I yield to this shorn beauty
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
58
Michele Harvey
She prefers
cemetery peace
the careful
spaces between family
measured distance between lives
a new bud
she gently opened to him
and his love
in a living room where
all the flowers were plastic
he pushed me
up the dark stairs
after movies
full of the monsters
that followed us
taking pieces
of his life from the garbage
the neighbors
unfettered by memories
leave only his shoes
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
59
Michele Harvey
she never thought
she’d let go of things easily
but she has . . .
the thought of kids
the thought of love
demarcation
between the lawn and fields
a fence line
dividing the tame from wild
my gold wedding band
something
wrong about the motion
of tossed earth
in the darkness
that surrounds my father
the boards
we had stolen as kids
to make a fort
the idea that protection
could be in my own hands
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
60
Michele Harvey
chipmunks tunnel
under the foundation
of the house
the subtle working
of his unkind words
milk bottles
between the alcohol
and cigarettes
small signs of life
in a man who’s given up
her life
would be different
without the kids
she told them daily
so they wouldn’t forget
turning the soil
small bits and pieces
of another life
rising to the surface
the glint of my own skeletons
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
61
Michele Harvey
so easily
other lives bought and sold
at the flea market
the family photographs
for a dollar apiece
overhead
the thunder roils
through cloud
her smile breaks through
a last minute rainbow
upward twirl
of butterflies in flight
two lovers . . .
a moment where all ceases
but you and I, alone
sharp barbs
under loud laughter
thinly veiled
I think I did see
his wife shrink a little
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
62
C W Hawes
the minister
preaches vacuous sermons
to pretentious pews
find me at the bar
for the Beloved has wine
church walls
cold to the touch these stones
these beating hearts
at the corner bar
the Beloved pours wine
a few coins clink
in my pocket while I walk
down the street
for a wad of greenbacks
my brother and I don’t speak
round and round
a whirling dervish ecstatic
I am
in a dream God’s voice
the flute player’s breath
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
63
C W Hawes
these pines
I see while looking out
my window
most mornings I notice
they aren’t there
only an hour
old is this summer sun
shining on the pines
the incense of my prayer
still lingers here
so quiet here
where I sit drinking
my tea
the sound on the highway
of the truck engine-breaking
heavy the dew
upon the grass the cars
this July fourth
I find myself musing
on his beneficence
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
64
C W Hawes
the road
singing with tires this morning
so many tires
once again my journey
is just within my mind
all the harsh
words spilling out from
the pulpit
reading the verse
love your neighbor
this still lake
the only sound is the cry
of the unseen loon
a small leaf drifts
on top the water
the mouth
gaping and hungry
with parched lips
from somewhere
the sound of crying
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
65
C W Hawes
the wind blows
the yellow sands in swirls
haunting sounds
of soldiers long dead
for what for what
smoking my pipe
on this summer night
while walking
is it smoke or your ghost
here by my side
this cup
of tea now cold
in my hand
for how long has
the door been open
there is
this deep deep longing
tonight
only city lights
no moon no stars
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
66
C W Hawes
deepening
dusk and the call
to prayer
this aloneness
when meeting God
This rainy morning,
is the wetness on your cheek
just from the sky?
Those framed yellowed photographs
still sitting on the bookshelf . . .
In this foggy
morning, where nothing
can be seen,
I wonder how long
your memory will remain.
picking up
veggies at the farmer’s market
downtown
the young woman gives a look
and an extra eggplant
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
67
Elizabeth Howard
a willowy silhouette
in the moonlit garden
slowly she descends the steps
gossamer gown billowing
the scent of jasmine
old sign of the sulphur wells—
the stink as we drew near
Grandmother buying water
though she had a well full
by the back porch
where the marrying tree
once overlooked the valley
couples pledged secret vows
we ponder love
forbidden, but enduring
lake restaurant
decorated for Christmas
red baubles fly
out of the rivercane—
cardinals
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
68
Elizabeth Howard
outside the café
a waitress in an apron
waiting for her ride home
my man, she says,
slower than autumn leaves
today the sun didn’t rise
the sky a veil of clouds
thunder in the distance
but the drought
deep-seated, persistent
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
69
Judy Kamilhor
mixed blessing
the church bells
chime the hour
I’m supposed
to be at work
summer afternoon
the old couple sitting
on a park slope stoop
not talking
on cell phones
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
70
Kirsty Karkow
how calm
the evening light
the water
and the way
he moves through life
for mental health
I walk by field and stream
every so often
a jig step
to avoid fresh mole hills
the final flight
of a navy pilot
ashes glide
and a cardboard box
spins down to the sea
fooled again
I stepped to the side
a back road
and a crescendo
of wind in the pines
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
71
M. Kei
a rotten spring line
snaps,
neither the first nor last
in a long line
of complications
the wet goes
all the way up to the
top of the sky
the rain crashes down
on the waves beneath
the newest
‘new captain’
at least they picked
a young one
this time
standing
straight as spears,
stalks of mint,
greener than the grass
on a summer day
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
72
M. Kei
a single pot
of marigolds
on the step
to the shack’s
front door
side by side,
the Catholic school and
the public school,
each as ramshackle
as the other
the heavy heat
hangs a deadly pall
over the country;
another week of struggling
to pay my bills
on the water
you can see
the rain coming:
an immense grey curtain
of falling needles
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
73
M. Kei
why do men
love the sea so?
why does it
call us like
no mortal lover?
I am not
an iron man,
and yet,
these wooden ships
call me so
feeding poems
to pigeons at
the bus stop,
I wait for inspiration
or maybe just respiration
a stop sign
in the middle of the
corn fields—
a thresher waits
for a raccoon to cross
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
74
M. Kei
blue mist in
the autumn valley,
black spots of cows
and farmhands
moving slowly
restless waves
tree branches sough
in the sea breeze
an autumn night
waiting for the storm
Iraqi mud
still on his boots
he buries himself
not all wounds
are visible
water weeds and puddles
left after the highest tide
no sailboats
on the autumn bay
this afternoon
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
75
M. Kei
grand old dames
lift their wooden skirts
above the muck
the autumn flood
comes to Port Deposit
my heart was weary,
but working the oysterboat
cured me of that
now my shoulders ache with
the cold fatigue of winter
this heron knows
the hunched grief
of autumn
and the grey weeds
of widows
it’s a warm rain
this autumn afternoon
when orange leaves
nod agreement
to hopeful dreams
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
76
M. Kei
black is not
my color; I have
reached the age
when funerals come
all too frequently
bleak rain tonight
autumn tides a little higher
this letter
isn’t from anyone
I care to notice
seven-eighths
of a winter moon
perhaps it knows
how I feel
without a partner
some day
I’d like to own something
that wasn’t bought
at a scratch and dent sale—
my heart included
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
77
M. Kei
this compass heart
always points true
no matter
how many stars
befuddle the night
I toss a quarter
into the bay;
a thousand geese rise,
fulfilling
a winter wish
December . . .
in the stillness of
the ochre dawn,
the neighbor’s roofline
and nothing more
even in the winter
of my withered heart,
there is still
a red flower that blooms
in the dawn
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
78
M. Kei
eating the sawdust
of the subjective moment,
I labor over these
planks of words
rotten to the core
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
79
Joseph V. Kleponis
when we were dancing
locked in a musical phrase
for a dreamsecond
we were forever safe and warm
only now does your music fade
diesel in the air
the hum of engines rising—
the road calls to me
in dreams you caress my cheek
how shall I answer the call?
stale cigarette smoke
the scent of your cheap perfume
and petty gossip
still linger in the dark hall
long after you think you’re gone
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
80
Gary LeBel
in this river
there is a deeper one
though its template
is never more than water
scissor-cut by light
something far beyond
our own sadness steps
over the threshold
of that enormous door
the goldenrod have opened
pressed between
the pages of my notebook
a blossom so bright
it turned each metaphor
to crimson
a day of ripening corn,
of hayfields burning with locusts,
is the day he cuts
a lock of his hair
for his father
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
81
Gary LeBel
as if an amphora stood
in this seedy room for poor travelers
my naked skin
poured full to the lips
with a nameless desire
I stare intently
into the doe's brown eyes
wild and lifeless by the roadside—
is it hers the firelight remembers
from the cave-mouth at Lascaux?
calves crowd the trough
shoulder to shoulder with their elders,
blissfully unaware
that the cosmos is honing
the blade of a knife
listening to the surf
we press our lips still
as if each were remembering
an ocean once fanned
through a wavering gill
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
82
Gary LeBel
if not for moments
taken now and then to be alone
with the rain
how would I ever hear the things
it has to tell me?
gathering
at the leaf-tips,
the myriad gleaming lenses
through which we sometimes gaze deeply
for a timeless sky
not quite alone
for I’ve the summer sun with me
and a pound
and a half
of Auden
down the chirring slopes
between mid-summer mountains
my mind strolled naked
and could not have cared less
where it left its clothes
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
83
Gary LeBel
with its two-year lifespan
how much it must accomplish
and yet the cuttlefish
has so many times already turned
into stone and back again
a scattering of wildflowers
in the wind-blown meadow
reminds me that everything
I should ever need
I’ve already been given
with a scent
of potatoes
the shrill cry
of a doll
from an open window
yes I’m jealous
of his workday
for the clam-digger’s office
is an inlet
to the mid-summer sea
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
84
Gary LeBel
sex-worn
with the dreams of a species
tucked safely into roe,
the peepers take a full year to recover
from Eros
the woods smell sweet
as the night pulls
from its linty pocket
one more
strange motel
some live
in the ether between worlds
and that may be why
they are so beautifully unfit
for either
“Give thanks,”
the river-birch mumbled at first light,
“for you
are more fortunate
than Charlemagne.”
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
85
Gary LeBel
a tiny seedling grows
straight out of the rock’s fissure—
the old pine must have told it
there was nothing
it could not do
a glass of Merlot,
stars, a scent of ocean:
pulp of infinite time,
will we ever become
the universe’s wine?
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
86
Jean LeBlanc
another semester—
the small high window
of this basement office
with its unrelenting view
of permanent dusk
a poem from a friend—
light fills the room
as if the sun
had been waiting
for his words
Isaiah says, ‘your bones
shall flourish like an herb.’
I am the parsley
dry and tasteless
gone to seed.
swept along
by the Friday evening crowd
up out of Penn Station
into—miracle!—
a waiting cab
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
87
Bob Lucky
in this world
there’s imperfection,
asymmetry—
I’ve yet to lose
a pair of socks
the moon is full
sit here, my friend
next to me
there’s always room
on a cold night
standing in line
to rub the turtle-rock
for good luck—
the boy ahead picks his nose
and ruins my chances
trying to remember
who got what . . .
recliner
small comfort to him
that he died with his feet up
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
88
Bob Lucky
fruit vegetables
high fiber cereal
toilet paper—
my shopping list reveals
a sense of the prophetic
everyone goes on
about the sun and the surf—
paradise
all I remember is the grit
of sand in my hot dog
rumble of thunder
a come-hither glance,
not all books are great—
I think with the lights off
we can do some editing
the orthodontist
has her last check—
I smile
my son’s teeth
no longer take a bite
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
89
Bob Lucky
since I’ve stopped drinking
some late night conversations
seem beside the point—
my glass is both half empty
and half full of nothing much
please kiss me
in the morning
when you wake up
I want to taste
your dreams
I’m not sure
he really likes Hanoi—
my brother
ever since he died
I take him everywhere
I thought
of you once
far away
the time between us
twisted over the horizon
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
90
Bob Lucky
I’ll call you
by another name and sleep
on the other side—
you won’t be you
and I won’t be me
not knowing when
the ice cream man will come,
I don’t wait for him
and I never miss him—
accidental perfection
I’ve no faith in god
and can’t believe in science—
my only hope
is that I’m absolutely
wrong about everything
I didn’t think;
therefore, it isn’t me
who’s kissing you—
would that it were me
on the tip of your tongue
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
91
Carole MacRury
Cemetery
leash taut
the dog and I enter
the graveyard
even before I see them
the thick scent of rose
an old tombstone
reminds me of Mom’s ashes
not yet scattered
my terrier rolls and rolls
for an itch he can’t reach
an overblown rose
supported by two buds
yet to bloom
will my children tell me
when I wear too much rouge?
a birthday balloon
above a new headstone
‘died too young’
at sixty-three sharing
a birthday with a ghost
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
92
Carole MacRury
a scented breeze
around moss-covered
headstones. . .
suddenly an old loss
becomes brand new
yes, this too
could be my life . . .
a few stones
and bright bits of glass
left scattered on a grave
Childhood Amnesia
oh holy night
my childhood solo rings
sweet and clear
fall on your knees
the part meant for me
a childhood
spent envying white swans
each spring
I watched the mated pair
care for a new brood
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
93
Carole MacRury
my illegitimacy
hovering over a dish
of sweet potatoes
I learn to be grateful
for the spoon in my hand
I chord
turkey in the straw
to Dad’s violin—
piano lessons buy me
a family memory
sleep-walking
through my childhood . . .
only waking up
when I forgive and kiss
my dying father goodbye
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
94
Terra Martin
victorian garden
of larkspur and lily
properly placed
our perennial romance
on annual vacation
a summer breeze
unexpectedly brushing
my hair playfully
your caress
awakens me
upright pink spires
of summersweet
an alluring fragrance
the jacket
left behind
embracing
the wildflower
those dandelion whiskers
the promise of your kiss
miles away
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
95
Terra Martin
a scarlet lily
opens to the sun
for a day only
the shadows lean away
but I linger on
hymns inscribed
at the great altar
of delphi
from a mountain spring
I quench my thirst
an atlas
in a dusty nook of
the library
on top of the world I read
your spicy love letter
the tiffany
chandelier
aglow
I warm to my fantasy’s
many colours
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
96
Terra Martin
deeper into
deeper into
the grand canyon
the intimacy of
a promise broken
Water ripples
on the crown canopy
a pulse of raindrops
and on the stream a leaf
the unfamiliar faces
of my adopted parents
a tiny waterfall
tumbles and turns
into silver ribbons
the glint of minnows
in a child’s eyes
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
97
Terra Martin
a thin river reed
a ray of the sun bends
with a goldfinch
I try to remember
my birth mother’s face
iridescent wings
of a distant dragonfly
on a water lily
the letter I wrote
but never sent
an emerald ocean
with sparkling sand
a fine spray of mist
on my face softer
than a mother’s sigh
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
98
Terra Martin
Just once . . . .
just once
watching the eddy
from the bridge
of the dark
currents below
just once
opening a door
the summer breeze
against your cotton
shirt
just once
under weeping willows
in a city park
wavering
less and less
just once
a solitary rose
sweetly scented
the offering of a gift
tenderly tenderly
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
99
Terra Martin
just once
a brassy saxophone
as we walk
hand in hand
a sunlit melody
just once
a humming bird lingers
on the moonflower
hidden blushes
as lips touch
just once
seeking shelter from
a sudden storm
our bodies rest
in the after glow
just once
a river between us
in the bleak dawn
at the bridge
I turn back . . . .
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
100
Francis Masat
shady cove—
a tourist
shedding her bikini
a barracuda
returns my stare
abandoned truck
its dashboard littered
with books on Zen
my notes spread
by a breeze
poetry workshop
palm trees lean
in all directions
new books weighted down
with last year’s rocks
wild bird shelter
trying to flap
half a wing
the constant whine
of planes overhead
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
101
Francis Masat
blossom time over—
clean sheets and pillow cases
hung out to dry
tree shadows dance
with mine
garden volunteer
hearing a cricket
is enough for her
red mulch
beneath red toenails
beach dawn—
runners step
over piles of seaweed
a Cuban raft
filling with sand
sundial—
a lizard
changing time
an old shed leans
into its shadow
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
102
Francis Masat
seaside beach
the movement
inside an egg case
an old man—
a shell white with age
evening sun—
a dragonfly wheels
past my trailer
I put in the last piece
to a puzzle
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
103
Michael McClintock
bad news
comes in drabs each day
about small things . . .
I buy a yellow shirt
and wearing it, appear happy
like a bee who needs
the scent of honey—
you’ve been gone
and I’ve been crawling
into your bed for my naps
summer left
on a bus last night
now skyscrapers
pump hard steam jets
into the autumn blue
aerial photos
of another city
lost in time—
the history of walls
and the roads between
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
104
Michael McClintock
seeing the place—
how the temple bells
must have hummed
deep in the mountains
behind Hiroshima
planning
a funeral—
as in daily life
arguing each and every
small point
coming back
as a corpse
surprised us—
twenty years he’d saved
for that vacation in Europe
finding a smaller,
cheaper bar,
the engaged man
drinks alone
till morning
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
105
Michael McClintock
for myself,
tears have never come easy
yet now I’m feeling
I might have done better
to have really let go
rosewater sorbet
served in frosted crystal
with a mint sprig . . .
I pick sand from my teeth
on the banks of the Tigris
I had been away
from her bedside
ordering a quick sandwich:
my mother
died alone
about problems
of middle-age,
I don’t know—
what are the chances
I’ve forgotten a few?
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
106
Michael McClintock
reading Vergil
is my rest, the best time
that lucid hour
when the sun’s a chariot
wheeling through the cedars
on the road
out of town, the foothills
take me in,
a willing lover
of crows and old oak
crossing the border
from hill country to mountain,
the veeries grow distant
and something else falls away
my heart wanted to keep
on the return home
birds settling,
daylight fading . . .
I am grateful
for the desk lamp
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
107
Michael McClintock
black skimmers
whir over the lake,
back to their island;
I am where I am
in the long twilight
darkness
out on the water
a mosquito
sings loudest
as it drowns
my guest
drinks the gin
down slow—
dignity comes
to my house
the moonlit cedars,
an owl or two—
I’d like to stay up all night
but I’ve work for tomorrow
and days grow short
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
108
Jo McInerney
laughing at waves
you clap baby hands
my heart aches
for a moment
I think gone forever
my daughter
settled in a new life
too late
to fix those promised stars
to the bedroom ceiling
her old house
freshly painted
the gate repaired
I wonder do sparrows
visit her grave
clearing out her desk . . .
the receipts, guarantees,
letters of complaint
false trails laid down
to divert the inevitable
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
109
Jo McInerney
chance
a simple conversation
on a train
and both our lives changed—
the power of cliché
I wheel you
awkward in a tilt chair
like a child
round that home
you’ll never leave
she cradles
in her hands
a cup
without a handle
warm if not whole
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
110
Louis Osofsky
exhausted
watching the ocean curl
i drop in sand
beginning to dig
for stones
the thirsty herd
covered with dust
travel at will
messengers
of which we know nothing
sputtering motor
across an afternoon sky
what do i see ?
quivering boughs
mobile as the wind
parents full of care
stood over my sleep
fatigued,
unknowing i sighed
& dreamed of wings
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
111
Louis Osofsky
taking
while you have it
soon enough
a single summer
turns the calf into a bull
pores closed
trapping the warmth
fingers wrinkle
water
pools & falls as i breathe
no longer captive
this late summer day
you arrive
i let go
the house fly in my fist
hands
on the upright piano
at home
opening the door
i had to sing
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
112
Stephen A. Peters
change of seasons
buying bubble gum
two weeks ago
buying a
pregnancy test kit today
between
the skyscrapers
steel and glass
the cherry blossoms
attract a crowd
in lust
across from my date
steamers in fish stew
with open mouths
stare up at me
the passing breeze
this moment
already gone
still
autumn lingers
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
113
Stephen A. Peters
reaching for
a cigarette
for a moment
the teacher forgets
where he is
at last!
among the crowd
among the
cherry blossoms
common ground
my brother killed in war
today in the park
children play
my brother and i
long ago
over conversation
at the laundrymat
between spin wash cycles
near the dirty linen
romeo finds juliet
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
114
Stephen A. Peters
that kind of day
some of
my past mistakes
showing through
the white out
going out of my way
to avoid the couple
with the screaming child
they sit next
to me anyway
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
115
Jack Prewitt
blue mountains
and misted valleys—
always there
in your rucksack
I use when shopping
in surf rip
at a lonely beach
in playful eyes
of a neighbour’s wife
that’s where it lurks
the woman
who was sitting
near the edge
has left her scarf—
deep autumn colours
at the next table
they fiercely debate
the hereafter
I order arabica coffee
cuban cigar with a cognac
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
116
Jack Prewitt
a soldier
on the way to his war
gave a child
this regimental button
I’ll hold it when dying
Land Mines:
unable to remember
the boyish face
of a soldier who boasted
he plowed a straight furrow
cedar stumps left
when grandad cleared
the farm
honestly, he’s dead
I can show you his grave
rechecking
her emails for a hint
of fondness
moon at the window
a moth on my monitor
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
117
Jack Prewitt
new potatoes
growing underfoot—
prehensile
my toes curl over
as if to dig down
cooling my feet
in your fishpond I drink
your gin slings . . .
suddenly my poem
makes sense as it is
village cenotaph
the honour role chiselled
into marble
why do I feel obliged
to read their names aloud?
God bless this food
the last of my pet ducks
we’re about to receive
not allowed to say its name
and make us truly thankful
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
118
Jack Prewitt
the garden
I’m too old to tend
thrives
did it really matter
which we called weeds?
hymn prayer
body committed
the blessing—
I dread his small son
asking what happens next
a bed of roses
at different stages
of dying
what is love called
when it has withered?
at the ninth
he sinks another
20-foot putt
very difficult
not to hate him
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
119
Patricia Prime
don’t know why
but suddenly between
home and city
the feeling came over me
I’d like to see you once more
you promised
you would walk with me
in the sun
along the river bank
the trees no longer in leaf
this evening
I sit as I sometimes do
humming at the table
my Chinese ink pen skimming
over blank paper
after ten years
of not seeing each other
you start off
on the wrong foot
with mistaken ideas
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
120
Patricia Prime
just a scribble
the pencil lines
don’t hold up
for a few days the poem
hasn’t materialised
a new poem began
on this foggy morning
when the cruise ship
left without anyone waving
a light drizzle on my face
the racket of birds
in the trees at quarter
past five
I throw myself blindly
into a new morning
close of day
I walk in dew-soaked grass
silly pride
has cost me a dear friend
I look back to old times
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
121
Patricia Prime
your hair is tied back
in a bunch of braids
demure as a child
but there is warmth in your eyes
as you go to meet your boyfriend
coastal chapel
beneath the christening font
a blue penguin nests
children’s drawings of birds
pinned above it on the wall
fog-bound harbour
the lone fisherman
drags in his net
was he the one my son saw
on the way to work this morning?
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
122
Carol Raisfeld
running up
the subway steps, I blink
into the sunlight
past the shoeshine man—
you, waiting
with flowers
finally home
wet by sudden rain, we dry
each other . . .
outside, a neon blinks stars
onto the slick street
midnight,
a drone of lazy fans
in the dank air;
he kisses a bead of sweat
on my nape
lingering
a city asleep
in the rain, rivulets
find their way . . .
eyes closed, I stroke
the curve of your back
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
123
Carol Raisfeld
the window
half-open to city sounds . . .
at midnight
a mouse comes in
with the moon
slipping into sleep
my smile against his chest;
could it be the wine?
on the stoop, an old man
hums the blues
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
124
Kala Ramesh
Walk the Thought
lively porpoises
leap
out of the blue
those fond memories
of my dog
mango blossoms
all over
how soon
how very soon
spring has come!
a subtle flavor
as I wash mango-ginger
this joy
on your face
as you relish them
waves rise
one on the other
culminating . . .
as I lie hearing
your breath quieten
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
125
Kala Ramesh
I remember the day
you left me in spring
lost and lonely
counting tiny mangoes
kept me going
sugarcane sticks out
from bullock-carts
I sense its sweetening
my baby, feeling you
through my stomach wall
my heart
still flutters
thinking of my first kiss
a raped child lives
with hers . . .
savouring
every moment
I walk the thought
until my poem gathers
its own momentum
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
126
Alexis Rotella
Thirty years
worth
of poems—
my life
in piles.
French class—
the priest
and a young nun
titter softly
during break.
Tissue paper
rustling in the breeze—
the sound
the dead make
when they walk.
He leaves her
with one last clinging
breathless hug
before dashing off
to meet his bride.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
127
Alexis Rotella
When I ask
if he’s still angry
he pauses
a long time
before saying no.
An hour it took
to drive here—
my friend
with her back
to the sea.
Straight black tulips
on a cold morning—
we lie in bed,
you on your side,
I on mine.
Our old priest
cutting the grass
in the cemetery—
his black shirt absorbs
the last rays of light.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
128
Alexis Rotella
Only six miles
to your town
the sign says
but it might as well be
six thousand.
The wind
pushing me
through the cemetery
as if to say
“leave.”
Again I lower
my level of joy
so my miserable friend
won’t feel
quite so bad.
Her mother dead—
the pianist
opens the windows,
plays a concerto
to the neighborhood.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
129
Alexis Rotella
The gift
she gave you—
its wrapping
printed with
her red lips.
In the coffee shop
a woman leaves
her heart—
pink lips folded over
a porcelain cup.
After the steak dinner
I prepared just for him,
he tells me
I’ll make some man
a wonderful wife.
My friend and I
at the theater
with two Catholic priests—
“Just our luck,”
she whispers.
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
130
Adelaide B. Shaw
her little cat feet
step noiselessly on the grass,
green eyes questioning
who are we in this house
looking back?
high school year book—
the springtime smiles
of hope;
my best friend’s name
on a stone marker
our new baby—
the soft look of innocence
on this harsh night
I need to hear his heart beat
before I sleep
a cool dawn breeze—
miles away you still lie
in darkness;
will memories of me
rise with the sun?
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
131
Adelaide B. Shaw
at the school mixer
you stand a head above
other boys;
I wait on the sidelines
longing for the next dance
ornaments packed—
dust motes float through
the sun-filled room;
stretching forward the new year
excites my curiosity
poison ivy—
hand sized leaves
blood red
twisting around the oak
with a strangle hold
autumn on the sound—
water laps softly
against the pier;
with clocks turned back
the day is too short
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
132
Adelaide B. Shaw
cold November winds—
this freshness gives energy
to my spirit;
I reach out to embrace
all the elements
bittersweet
clings to the chainlink fence;
orange berries
so hardy on the vine
so fragile in my hand
April sunshine—
feeling the temperature rise
my spirit blossoms;
all the days of summer
yet to come
a slow stroll
through a lilac dusk—
overlapping shadows
precede me home to a night
without you
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
133
Adelaide B. Shaw
pear blossoms—
translucent petals released
in the wind
swirling like memories
above my head
another spring
and I easily forget
my age;
for a few weeks I float
with cherry blossoms
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
134
Billy Simms
ashes
my grandfather’s life
packed in an urn
my father and I
have nothing to say
my restless sleep
why do I dream
of crimes
I haven’t
committed?
sparrows
perched
on the power lines
do they dream
of singing?
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
135
Guy Simser
Stealing a look
at you doing this
doing that
fifty years
teasing myself
My warm hands
on your cool marble
fingertip memory
never
dies
Tokyo graveyard mist
in my damp shirt pocket
Netsuke Buddha
for local shoals
local pilots
High over Newport
’round about midnight
that black bird
soaring, free-falling
for Miles
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
136
Guy Simser
Paring a pencil
with a pen knife
a small pleasure
like tamping my pipe
while searching a word
Starless night
a test for atheists
dying like me
to sneak a peek, before
the last cock crows
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
137
Paul Smith
by myself on the hills
from somewhere
just a hint of smoke
and the mystery of knowing
I am not alone
lost for words
content just to listen
the sound of water
endlessly
down stream
presented with
her to do list
I ponder
whose life is it
I am living
walking out
after another row
in the sky
clouds
parting
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
138
Paul Smith
aware of its presence
it remains all day
just beyond reach
the elusive
five lines down
like spring
I know now
that understanding you
is a season also
that will change
those two little boys
nearly forty now
can’t quite believe
how much has changed
how much they haven’t
by the window
watching the willow
bending in the wind
wondering what freedom
I really have
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
139
André Surridge
cold day
dining room fruit bowl
the glow
of an orange
with goosebumps
crouching
in the shrub’s shadow
a smudge
of blue and grey
fledgling sparrow
I listen
to the strong beat
of your heart
but still it reminds me
of fragility
a letter
by Monet complaining
about the fog
soon it would creep
into his eyes
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
140
André Surridge
hospital visit
I examine the bruise
on your forearm
drowsy from morphine
you talk about clouds
approaching storm
the last muster on horseback
heads down the mountain
viewed from the farmhouse window
sheep tumble like grains of rice
winter rain
how old I have grown
an oak
groans in the bitter wind
these aching limbs
pulsing
brighter than others
a southern star
far-off the sound
of the moonlit sea
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
141
André Surridge
no wind
in his garden
the vicar’s sermon
inspired by the fall
of an almond leaf
woken
from heavy sleep by rain
on the iron roof
the distant long low rumble
of a goods train
a photograph
of my great great grandfather
Dr Ponsonby
carrying his Gladstone bag
a part of him in me
on the bureau
in a tiny wooden box
her dog’s ashes
rest between the paws
of its favourite teddy
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
142
A.Thiagarajan
walking uphill
alongside her father
the little one
in sync with him
except in breath
visiting the old school
dad studied years ago—
running fingers over the desk
for the engraved name
below the fresh coat of paint
the beggar girl
gives me a broad smile
how did she know
it was only all frowns
in the office today
are you happy now?
I ask giving a hundred
enough for today
says my son.
how true!
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
143
A.Thiagarajan
she gets sentimental
when taking rosagullas—
her son living away liked them as a kid
doesn’t matter that
he doesn’t like anymore
after fighting
you go to the cigarette vendor
at the end of the street
to puff and puff—
me back at kitchen to boil
at the party
should I be a veg
or a nonveg
both look fine
the counter girls
together
in fond silence
reading all the letters
our unborn kids
could have written
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
144
Julie Thorndyke
autumn wind . . .
twin maples on the lawn
one still green, one gold
like us, always one
leading the way
bee-hives placed
among the wildflowers
mobile homes
even for bees
in this sea-side town
still rippling
the olive-green river
wide and flat
my anxious moments
even out with the tide
my wishes
blown like thistledown
on a harsh wind—
I drop the bare-headed stalk
empty fingers grasping air
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
145
Julie Thorndyke
pink linen shirt
transparent in the light
would the weave
of my soul be as open
if washed and hung out to dry?
dry creek-bed
water-polished rocks
smooth ovals in the sun . . .
the kindly school teacher
I was too shy to thank
angel wings
fluttering on her back
tinsel halo
floating as high
as my hopes for her
pink oleanders
outside Grandma’s front fence
each visit the same
warning —I still wonder which
part of the plant held poison
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
146
CarrieAnn Thunell
a pile
of green dreadlocks
coil round
the barista’s young face—
Medusa resurfacing
civilization
has clear-cut my soul
my roots
have no soil to cling to—
I’m an urban tumbleweed
lucky dogs
on the Makah reservation
follow the scent
of adventure
never to know a leash
playing pinochle
on a postage stamp
lot in Olympia
the immigrants
watch the birdfeeder
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
147
CarrieAnn Thunell
pausing
at Neah Bay,
our dreams
touch down lightly
on the waves
rain runs
in rivulets down the stone
Buddha’s eyes
these many decades
of global war and famine
resting lightly
between my fingers,
the rigger brush
flicks bare brown strokes
that reach the clouds
the road curls
and uncurls like pipe smoke
as it winds around
the coastline bay
and the bay winds round my heart
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
148
Chuck Tripi
where does it begin
birds preening on the wire
my lover’s dried hair
releasing the sparks in me
the wire, where does it end
flowery combat
she knows what this does to me
breezing past my door
I do not even see it
the shape and the scent of her
I speak poetry
into the stillness of love
she watches my feet
knowing the ring of my steps
musical words fluttering
final defiance
he refuses to be sad
sunrise and sunset
come to a prism of sky
bending colors, straightening
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
149
Chuck Tripi
how to receive me
she does not even wonder
at daylight the birds
moths at the onset of night
shades drawn, lights dim, same thing
splattering of rain
silence of the falling snow
spikes on the rosebush
red roses, red blossoming
living me, end when I end
I shall not falter
closing my eyes, worlds go dark
sight sound scent taste touch
generations come and gone
cry out against faltering
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
150
Anita Virgil
breathing in
your cool
blown spray O whale
and for a while
we are one
summer ends . . .
turning the pages
rewinding the clocks
changing the calendar
changes nothing
tasting my tears
reminds me I am
from the sea, no matter
all the human
trappings
dancing
only a step or two
in the room
where you were . . .
misty, all night
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
151
Anita Virgil
full moon—
sleepless
I try to scrub
from this pot
my longing
quietly, with sunlight,
in the woods summer opens
but in the dark places
the sorrows of spring
linger
in the night you call me
from a mountain of sad
and a fresh wind
picks off the clouds
leaves us a night of stars
how I wish
I was younger
so I could love you longer
but no one will ever
love you more
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
152
Anita Virgil
my friend
looking poorly . . .
but who shall weep
for you
little sparrow?
as though that giant silver moon
were lodged within my chest
this fullness
this shine
from you
our words
ever
wet
& fresh as dew
at sunrise
driving alone
in spring night rain
road ghosts draw me on
to the dark house
bereft of you
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
153
Anita Virgil
mingling with
my tears &
waking birds
this gentle
dawn rain
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
154
Ella Wagemakers
you left . . .
my memory of you
gone at last
I stepped into a boat
and never looked back
remembering
the old four-door sedan
family laughter
before our parents
abandoned the nest
the moon . . .
far older than
we are . . .
and yet
it is we who age
pointing
to the whitewashed sky
spruce and pine
but there is no stone house
and you are not waiting
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
155
Ella Wagemakers
alone
near the pond
I feed
all my secrets
to the hungry carp
in the village
where you waved
in farewell
my footsteps faded
from every street
year’s end
the stones on which
I stumble
as worn out
as my knees
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
156
N. C. Whitehead
I reach out
to where your hand
used to be . . .
a crescent moon
clings to barren branches
walking between
tombstones
in the cemetery . . .
the trees offer
dead leaves to graves
without you
for the first time
on this street . . .
a lone leaf floats
down the drain
Modern English Tanka — Autumn 2007
157
Robert D. Wilson
under the