Modern English Tanka 6

M ODERN

E NGLISH

T ANKA

MET 6

Winter 2007

Volume 2 Number 2

MET 6, Winter 2007

Volume 2 Number 2

Modern English Tanka

ISSN 1932-9083

Denis M. Garrison, Editor

Michael McClintock, Contributing Editor

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 - MET 6, Winter 2007 - Vol. 2, No. 2

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.

EDUCATIONAL USE NOTICE MODERN ENGLISH TANKA PRESS, Baltimore,

Maryland, USA, publisher of the quarterly journal, Modern English Tanka , is dedicated to tanka

education in schools and colleges, at every level. It is our intention and our policy to facilitate the

use of Modern English Tanka and related materials to the maximum extent feasible by educators at

every level of school and university studies. Educators, without individually seeking permission

from the publisher, may use Modern English Tanka publications, online digital editions and print

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the journal’s liberal policy on “Fair Use.” Any educator seeking clarification of our policy for a

particular use may email the Editor of Modern English Tanka , at dmg@modernenglishtankapress.

com or at dmg@themetpress.com. We welcome innovative uses of our resources for tanka

education.

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 — MET 6, Winter 2007 — Vol. 2, No. 2

Published by MODERN ENGLISH TANKA PRESS.

Print Edition: ISSN 1932-9083

Digital Edition: ISSN 1930-8132 www.modernenglishtanka.com

editor@modernenglishtanka.com

C O N T E N T S

Modern English Tanka — MET 6, Winter 2007

Volume 2, Number 2.

7

EDITORIALS

8

James Joyce, Jimi Hendrix & Tanka by Denis M. Garrison, editor. Followed by

Editorial Notes, including the three tanka selected for the back cover.

13

A Commentary on Modern Tanka, East-West Fusionism, and “The Little Age of

Anthologies” by Michael McClintock, contributing editor.

24

TANKA

25

Hortensia Anderson

27

Aurora Antonovic

29

Megan Arkenberg

34

Ronald Baatz

40

Pamela A. Babusci

42

Dave Bacharach

44

Shawn Bowman

45

James Roderick Burns

47

Dina E. Cox

48

Melissa Dixon

49

Garry Eaton

51

Amelia Fielden

57

Samuel Fretwell

58

Bernard Gadd

59

Joshua Gage

61

Denis M. Garrison

62

Victor P. Gendrano

63

Beverley George

64

Gina

65

Sanford Goldstein

72

Andrea Grillo

73

Michele Harvey

77

CW Hawes

80

John L. Holgerson

81

Elizabeth Howard

82

Kirsty Karkow

85

M. Kei

89

Kathy Kituai

91

Joseph V. Kleponis

92

Gary LeBel

96

Jean LeBlanc

97

Angela Leuck

104

Bob Lucky

107

Terra Martin

111

Michael McClintock

112

Tyrone McDonald

113

Jo McInerney

115

Annette Mineo

117

Amy Nawrocki

119

Stephen A. Peters

121

Pamela Pignataro

123

Jack Prewitt

125

Patricia Prime

127

Carol Raisfeld

129

Kala Ramesh

131

David Rice

133

Alexis Rotella

135

Adelaide B. Shaw

137

Trish Shields

138

Billy Simms

140

Guy Simser

142

Paul Smith

147

André Surridge

150

Carolyn Thomas

151

Julie Thorndyke

152

CarrieAnn Thunell

154

John Samuel Tieman

156

Chuck Tripi

157

N. C. Whitehead

158

Liam Wilkinson

160

Rodney Williams

161

Jim Wilson

162

Robert D. Wilson

168

Fran Witham

170

Jeffrey Woodward

176

Chris Wright

177

Brian Zimmer

178

ESSAYS & ARTICLES

179

The Road Ahead for Tanka in English by Jeffrey Woodward.

188

Alternate Lineation in Tanka and Tanka in One, Two and Three Lines , both by M.

Kei.

198

A History of Tanka Publishing in English by M. Kei.

219

Letter to the Editor from M. Kei.

221

Cinquain as Tanka by Denis M. Garrison. Three select examples.

223

BOOK NOTES & REVIEWS

224

Eavesdropping: Seasonal Haiku by Alexis Rotella.

Ouch: Senryu That Bite by Alexis Rotella.

Lip Prints: Tanka and Other Short Poems 1979–2007 by Alexis Rotella.

Landfall: Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka, Edited by Denis M. Garrison

& Michael McClintock.

Jun Fujita, Tanka Pioneer. Edited by Denis M. Garrison; Introduction by M.

Kei.

this hunger, tissue-thin: new & selected tanka 1995–2005 , by Larry Kimmel.

Four Decades on My Tanka Road: The Tanka Collections of Sanford Goldstein , by

Sanford Goldstein.

226

Lip Prints : Tanka and Other Short Poems 1979–2007 by Alexis Rotella. Reviewed

by Liam Wilkinson.

230

Gathering Peace by Carol Purington. Reviewed by Denis M. Garrison.

232

A note about Blue Smoke by Sheila Windsor and Larry Kimmel.

233

Scent of Jasmine and Brine by Linda Jeannette Ward. Reviewed by Denis M.

Garrison.

236

The Art of the Book : The Anthologies of Giselle Maya. Reviewed by M. Kei.

240

Tanka Therapy: How One Man Coped with the Loss of His Son after 9-11 , a review

by Alexis Rotella of Odes to the Soul of Ground Zero by Kazusada Sumiyama.

244

Contributors

250

Tanka Venues, with abbreviations

7

E D I T O R I A L S

8

James Joyce, Jimi Hendrix & Tanka

Denis M. Garrison, editor

A Warning to the Young: This article is of a sort that can be written only by an old fool .

You may need to “google” to learn about James Joyce and, if you were unborn or

prepubescent in 1969, you may need to do the same for Jimi Hendrix. When I say I am

an ‘old fool,’ well, I expect no contradiction but I still should clarify a bit. By ‘old’ I do

not refer only to age but also context. If you can remember a world without spaceflight,

computers, playstations, television, interstate highways, or even electric typewriters and

microwave ovens, you might be ‘old.’ If outhouses, waterpumps, dirt roads, hitching

posts, and penny candy figure in your childhood memories, you might be ‘old.’ As to

being a ‘fool,’ I am referring to something truly ancient, although timeless—the role of

the royal court’s fool (something else you might have to google). Suffice it to say that

there were some truths, especially unpleasant truths, which telling to the king would

prove fatal to anyone—except the king’s fool. This developed, in Christian Russia and

elsewhere in that part of the world, into the martyric “Fool-for-Christ” whose role was

prophetic and often about as welcome as any jeremiad. These saints were not protected

by kings and their careers were often notably shorter. Today, some standup comedians

carry on the tradition and, the closer they come to the truth, the more they are at risk.

Think, Lenny Bruce (google it, if you must).

JAMES JOYCE. One of the most important of ‘Dead Poets and Novelists.’ His semi-

autobiographical novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man , is the one book that I

carried all over the world in my duffelbag in both my Air Force and Navy years. The

Christmas dinner scene, with the family quarreling over Parnell, is in my estimation the

best ever written demonstrating how a loving family can have passionate divisions over

politics. There are lessons to be learnt from this book that illuminate many painful

situations in one’s life. In the late 1960s, American families became more polarized by

politics than perhaps ever since the American civil war a century earlier. My father and

I were both military men—he, an Army lifer; me, both an airman and a sailor—and both

war veterans. Still, we were so divided over politics at the end of the Sixties that our

mutual abuse stopped only at physical violence. And we were by no means unusual in

that respect. Nowadays, since the Clinton & Bush presidencies, America is again divided

into spiteful polarity. This vicious Zeitgeist is, regrettably, not confined to American

shores but infects the world, particularly the English-speaking world, because of the utter

ease of global communications in our time. In the small, specialized, world of tanka in

English, this ugly fact of global society replicates itself in our discussions and

disputations about tanka. In my experience, tanka poets and aficionados are amongst the

kindest and gentlest of folks in the world of serious literature. Even so, we need guard

against polarization when it has become the very atmosphere.

JIMI HENDRIX. An American musician, also a ‘Dead Artist.’ His guitar music inspired

passionate reactions, none more so than his iconic improvisation of the American

national anthem, Star Spangled Banner , in 1969 at the end of the Woodstock festival.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

9

Depending on one’s politics at that time, one might consider Hendrix’s performance as

the highpoint of his career and a defining moment in American popular culture, or, one

might consider it a practically blasphemous satire on the national anthem and a

treasonous anti-war anthem of an entirely different stripe. (If you have never heard it,

search for it online—it is readily available.) It is most unfortunate that this performance

is shrouded in the politics of the time, because it is of great value as a case-in-point with

respect to formalism and its rejection. I am no musical authority of any type, so I won’t

try to explain Hendrix’s music. Rather, let it suffice to say that his bizarre rendition of

the national anthem would never have succeeded, would not have been so deeply,

profoundly, moving that it became an icon of the time, if his rejection of the formal

music of the anthem had not been based upon his mastery of his music and his

instrument. The performance touched a wild and untamed place in millions of hearts,

but there was a foundation of fine music underneath it, holding it up. For this particular

old fool, it is proof positive that great art depends upon both formalism and the ability

to rise above the formal. I am an old fool, but I cannot find merit in any argument that

pits one against the other in absolute terms. The disputes over formalism seem to me to

be the most specious of excuses for divisions and disparagements. The primacy of chaos

is the raison d’etre for formalism. A sinless world would be an unforgiving one.

Most educated folks today realize that not everyone thinks alike, even on fundamental

matters. Some of us find beauty and solace in order, structure, mathematical precision,

etc. Others of us find what we need in utter freedom, thinking outside the box,

innovation, and the freshness of surprise. Whichever we are, we go astray when we think

those on “the other side” are one-dimensional and somehow defective. In fact, we all

need a full range of life experiences, ranging from the most to the least disciplined; it is

the mixture, the proportion, the choices, that vary from person to person. Speaking only

for myself, the old fool, even now in my seventh decade I am still struggling to

understand myself and how my endlessly squabbling mind and emotions are supposed

to work together. I am deeply loathe to suggest that I even begin to understand another

person. And, lacking in understanding, I am even more loathe to judge.

People I respect have expressed their opinions that tanka in English must, MUST , be

written in five lines of five, seven, five, seven and seven English syllables, respectively.

I have read many very fine tanka written in this strict form, as well as many poor ones.

Other people I respect have expressed their opinions that tanka in English must be

written in five lines, following the five-seven-five-seven-seven template, but specify that

it needs to be shortened proportionally to shave several syllables from a tanka, so that

its enunciated length is similar to that of tanka in Japanese. Again, I have read many fine

and many poor tanka in this strict but modified form. Yet other people I respect have

disputed both the previous groups, arguing that tanka can and should be free of the

Japanese form when not written in Japanese. Most of these people write on five lines

and stay under thirty-one syllables in total, but their distribution of syllables on lines

often vary widely. Many fine and many poor tanka are to be found in this group as well.

And the list could go on to other variations of form (or formlessness).

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

10

What is to be concluded from this all? Everyone must answer that for herself or himself.

For me, the old fool, there are inescapable conclusions. All are correct in saying their way

will work for writing fine tanka. All are in error if they say that other ways will not work

or are illegitimate. I have read tens of thousands of tanka and I have found fine verse in

every imaginable form; and doggerel in every form as well.

Even though I grew up in Japan and once spoke Japanese, I am not Japanese and am not

about to even suggest rules for Japanese tanka. If the Japanese hold tanka to consist

largely or even wholly in its form, so be it. It is for them to say. Amen.

For tanka in English, the Japanese center will not hold—has not held. The genie is out

of the bottle and indigenous tanka in English are sprouting around the world.

Assimilation has already occurred and bemoaning it will not end it. Read Michael

McClintock’s following editorial on East-West Fusionism, etc ., and you will discover how

thoroughly passé is the conflict over formalism. Anymore, I find it truly tiresome to read

articles and book reviews that knock some school of tanka. I never knew Father Neal

Henry Lawrence, OSB but I have grown weary of reading how wrong-headed he

supposedly was in calling for strict adherence to the 31-syllable formula for tanka in

English. He may have been narrow in his vision, but he worked within his own

parameters and wrote some beautiful tanka. What more can be asked? I can readily name

poets working today whose tanka adhere to that formula and are fine verse, indeed.

The “tanka in English community” has been around for more than a generation but is

still in the process of emergence. Many members of this circle are also members of

another comprised of poets writing haiku in English. We ought to learn from the haiku

community how counter-productive, even destructive, partisanship around the

organizing genre can be. The “haiku wars” (originally over “onji” and syllable-counting)

are infamous and no source of glory for haikuists. I closed the seven-year run of Haiku

Harvest : Journal of Haiku in English with my editorial titled “Time for a Truce in the Haiku

Wars” ( Haiku Harvest , Spring & Summer 2006, Vol. 6, No. 1). Richard Gilbert’s superb

article, “Stalking the Wild Onji: The Search for Current Linguistic Terms Used in

Japanese Poetry Circles”, includes a note from Jane Reichhold, dated July 11, 1998, in

which she describes the “haiku wars” of the 1970s and worries that the same thing was

already entering the tanka scene. It is to the credit of the tanka community that it has,

so far, largely withstood polarization and the inevitable “tanka wars” that would ensue;

but vigilance must be maintained, because human nature never changes—it may ebb and

flow, but it does not change.

I would leave you with two thoughts. First, we all need to be mindful of our natural

tendencies to take positions and defend them vigorously so that we may rein in our

defenses short of becoming offenses. Second, formalism versus freedom is a fatally

flawed formula for dispute. Chaos and form are the yin and yang of art. The conflicts

and interactions of chaos and form are the activities from which art arises. To pick one

of the two and champion it, as against the other, is genuine foolishness of the first order.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

11

Editorial Notes for MET6

ARTICLES IN THIS ISSUE: Better essayists than I have given our readers much to

enjoy in this issue of Modern English Tanka .

C

Our contributing editor, Michael McClintock, has penned a truly important

article, A Commentary on Modern Tanka, East-West Fusionism, and “The Little Age

of Anthologies.” McClintock’s broad artistic perspective and long involvement

in tanka allow him to analyze English tanka history in a meaningful and

instructive manner that equips the engaged reader for new efforts and

expanded horizons.

C

Well-known critic, Jeffrey Woodward, in addition to a number of tanka and

haibun, has contributed a fascinating article, The Road Ahead for Tanka in English .

He poses provocative questions about the future use of prose in conjunction

with tanka. His are not mere innovations, but have a solid basis in ancient

practice. The open issue is how poets choose to (or not to) use all the

traditional options open to the tanka genre. The larger questions underlying

Woodward’s discussion are whether and how poetry and prose boundaries in

general may open to more mixed literature. The answers to such questions

cannot come from scholars or critics, but must come from poets themselves.

C

M. Kei has contributed several items to this issue. His articles Alternate Lineation

in Tanka and Tanka in One, Two and Three Lines , both deal with the same issue;

one, theoretically, and two, with examples. Anyone familiar with Modern English

Tanka , even if they have only noticed the symbology of our logos and marks,

must know that I find the rubric “five phrases on fine lines” to be the most

useful for defining tanka form. Nevertheless, Modern English Tanka Press has

just published Jun Fujita, Tanka Pioneer (with a fine Introduction by M. Kei)

which is comprised largely of tanka on four lines. I am adamantly open to

variety of forms for tanka, although I have a deep appreciation for a strict

form. Kei’s articles pursue this matter and, I believe, shed new light on the

possibilities. In addition, M. Kei has also shared with us his updated and

expanded historical article, A History of Tanka Publishing in English in which he

fulfills the first commission of any historian, to record what happened. The

original article by Kei, A History of Tanka Books in English , was published in

Modern English Tanka 2 (Volume 1, Number 2. Winter 2006). Because of its

uniquely comprehensive nature, we are now publishing the current version.

Taken together with Kei’s two tanka bibliographies (which are both readily

available online at www.TankaCentral.com), his History comprises a virtual

survey course in Tanka 101.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

12

COVER TANKA: The three tanka selected for our back cover showcase are:

deep in the grass

eye to eye with daisies

it was purple vetch

that wrapped my wrist

and drew me to my knees

— Kirsty Karkow

the red poppies

that were torn apart

by fire trucks

when the barn burned—

I miss them most

— Dave Bacharach

this autumn Sunday

cleaning out the shed with you

memories of life

with another man

catch on me like cobwebs

— Annette Mineo

My thanks to contributing editor Michael McClintock for helping me to select only three

tanka to showcase from several dozen very outstanding candidates in this issue.

— Denis M. Garrison, editor

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

13

A Commentary on Modern Tanka,

East-West Fusionism, and

“The Little Age of Anthologies”

For the past fifty years, in growing numbers, Westerners have been inserting their

barbarian noses into a lot of books of translated East Asian poetry, particularly the

poetry of China and Japan. This exposure bore fruit and celebrity in the poetry of the

Beats—Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Kenneth Rexroth, Gary Snyder, et al .

What at the time was criticized by cultural pundits as being a brief and self-indulgent

diversion on the road to somewhere else proved, in fact, to be remarkably durable, a

permanent and real destination on the intellectual landscape. Sure, for some it was a

passing love affair, a date with a San Francisco geisha. But for others the attractions of

Asian thought, arts and literature, would mean a lifetime devotion to understanding the

East. The comparative studies and high contrasts offered by Asian insights, disciplines,

and historical experience seemed to promise ways to modify, change, broaden or

improve Western values and practices.

The Processes of Fusionism

Subsequent decades have seen the processes of East-West fusionism take the time and

make the effort to grow deeper roots in the aesthetics and ideals of Eastern art-

expression. Time has also been given to identifying and studying some of the chief,

native Western counterparts to those traditions. A psychological readiness has been

constructed for amalgamating the mutual polarities of Asian thought with historical

Western notions of dualism and materiality. The super-strange, highly spooky, mystical

realities of quantum connectivity and simultaneity in modern physics find an echo in the

ancient works of Lao-Tzu and the lore of the Taoist philosophers.

From poets writing tanka in English, particularly in the last twenty years, the result has

been work that is refreshingly accessible, understandable, and shareable. And it may be

very important, especially, to the short English lyric. English-language tanka poets have

not abandoned their Western heritage but have managed to fuse it successfully with

Asian disciplines and sensitivities that, today, feel right because of this successful

fusion—as opposed to being, merely, fashionably hip, Zen-exotic, or just plain weird.

Those poets whom I most have in mind in this regard—Laura Maffei, Alexis Rotella,

Larry Kimmel, Carol Purington, George Swede, Andrew Riutta, Beverley George, John

Stevenson, and many dozens more—never waved good-bye to the contemplative

Wordsworth, the shamanic Whitman, Dickinson, or the Yeats of “Leda and the Swan.”

Nor did they slam the door shut to such disparately different moderns as Langston

Hughes, Robinson Jeffers, or Anne Sexton. Tankaists in English have, in their patient

and quiet pursuit of East-West fusionism, achieved the discovery of a heritage that is

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

14

universal and bigger than either East or West alone. Their work appears to share in the

vision that was pursued, found, and passionately advocated by Czeslaw Milosz in his

international anthology A Book of Luminous Things [1].

What has this process of fusionism involved? Here is a quick listing of what I think are

important elements:

–Going beyond imitation and mannerism (e.g., mannered phrasing, as borrowed chiefly

from the popular translators, from Arthur Waley onward).

–The appearance of new tanka poets (Andrew Riutta, Annette Mineo, et al ) who seem

to have completely bypassed the imitative stages that typify the work of earlier English

tankaists and gone directly into expression of contemporary subject matter in

contemporary idiom/language, feeling quite at home in rural and small-town America

as well as in the noise and confusion of the modern metropolis.

–The wide appearance and development of a distinctive, individual tanka voice among

large numbers of English-language tanka poets, distinguishable by their diction,

vocabulary, subject matter, the way they cut their lines, and other “fingerprints” of style

and voice.

–A large body of competent and original poetry (as opposed to incompetent and copycat,

imitative poetry).

–The growth of infrastructure, involving such areas as publication of periodicals devoted

to the genre, publishers of collections and books; growth in scholarship, translations, and

research activities; emergence of support groups, e.g. The Tanka Society of America,

Tanka Canada, The Anglo-Japanese Tanka Society, and Tanka Oz (Australia), et al.

–A noticeable decline and/or de-emphasis of Buddhist-based and Zen-oriented

approaches to tanka and related literature. This has involved a deliberate distancing from

the Zen-ist enthusiasms of greats like R. H. Blyth, or even Alan Watts, and a trading up

to the more formal, modernist sobrieties of Makoto Ueda, Edwin A. Cranston, and

Steven D. Carter (in translations), Lin Yutang and Daisetz T. Suzuki (in philosophy), and

similar migrations from breezy, popular sources (however truly “great” they were and still

a hoot to read) to the broader, deeper, and more thorough-going inspections and

analyses of academic trench-workers.

Consequently, it seems that today you may be a mushy New Age guru, a gloomy

Catholic, a student of Dogon, an atheist, or a devotee of Zoroastrian dirges, and write

contemporary tanka that is genuinely native to the landscape of the Western democracies

and socialist societies. In commodity-driven America, religious commitment or

spirituality means you get up in the morning and make your choice for the day and see

how close it gets you to either the indwelling or out-dwelling god. Your isolated self is

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

15

your guide.

–A general trend (also noted above) toward maturity in scholarship, as evidenced by the

appearance of discussions clearly intended for an audience much wider than that of

fellow academics, and in content going well beyond the introductory and beginning levels

of survey and outline. Notable examples of studies in this category include: Waiting for

the Wind: Thirty-Six Poets of Japan’s Late Medieval Age , translated by Steven D. Carter (New

York: Columbia University Press, 1989); Awesome Nightfall: The Life, Times, and Poetry of

Saigyo , by William R. LaFleur (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2003); The Poetics of Motoori

Norinaga: A Hermeneutical Journey , translated and edited by Michael F. Marra (Honolulu:

University of Hawai’i Press, 2007).

–Lastly, a more overt, sustained, and conscious effort to integrate tanka into the literary

traditions of Western literature and cultural awareness; to re-enter the poetry of the West

and re-engage in its ceaseless dialogue and expression of human experience by presenting

and publishing original, English-language tanka that express something about

contemporary, English-language cultures and sub-cultures.

–The evident array of styles and uses of the basic five-line tanka form: This is a good and

necessary thing. The “spirit” of contemporary tanka in English can mean no single

quality. It must mean a group of qualities in which poets and readers alike may find

different but worthy expression of human experience, thought, and feeling, from a

multitude of viewpoints, stations, and backgrounds, reflecting the eclectic characteristics

and sources of the culture itself.

Insofar as tanka in English is concerned, all of these developments (and I apologize for

giving only a quick sketch) go a long way toward answering some of those misgivings

voiced by Tom Lynch in his 1994 review of Footsteps in the Fog [2]:

“An odd confession for one reviewing a collection of

tanka, but I beg the reader’s indulgence. I find myself

skeptical about the growing interest in writing tanka

among many haiku poets. Does this interest suggest a

frustration with the sparse objectivity of haiku, and

perhaps a too easy evasion of that discipline? Perhaps so.

“Is tanka different enough from the short lyric poem of

the West to justify its practice as a separate genre? I’m not

sure. In any case, the move from haiku to tanka seems a

move away from that which is most unique in the

Japanese literary tradition (what I might call ego-

suppression) back to a form with more affinity for the

ego-swamped subjectivity of Western poetry.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

16

“And, paradoxically perhaps, the interest in tanka also sets off

warning bells for me about the allure of exoticism, which I

see as a constant danger for those of us practicing literary

genres originating in other cultures. . .

“Has my engagement with the book settled my anxieties? Not

really. The occasional excess of overt emotional statement

and generality lends credence to some of my concerns. But a

few quite good poems suggest promise, and that promise is

perhaps all one can ask for at this stage of tanka writing in

English.”

--Tom Lynch [3]

That was written thirteen years ago. Today, at least for me, it sounds like it was written

from a porch on Mars. Still, Lynch’s questions have value as history; the authenticity of

literature is always a question worth investigating and answering. As for “the allure of

exoticism,” at one time this was also thrown up as a barrier against printing the Bible in

English, the results of which reckless venture were held in great doubt (and by some, still

are).

Example Tanka

Poems like these four, below, show that contemporary tanka have not abandoned the

West to take household in the East [4]:

Halloween—

infant Batman

in my arms

barely aware of the world

that needs saving

—Laura Maffei

Whitman wrote:

Look for me under

your boot soles.

And I do.

And you are.

—Pamela Miller Ness

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

17

It screeches to a stop,

this rusty ’79 pick up.

I step out,

light a cigarette,

and inhale the lilacs.

—Andrew Riutta

No use trying

to figure me out;

everything I

write is fiction—

and all of it true.

—Alexis Rotella

In Maffei’s poem, the parallel of Mary with the baby Jesus and this flesh-and-blood

mother who holds the infant Batman in her arms is unmistakable, and both comic and

poignant. Infant Batman (the secular Jesus?) of good works and moral salvation exists

in the innocence that precedes the knowledge that the world and anyone in it needs

saving. Whether our orientation is religious or secular, innocence is loved, and the love

for innocence costs us heartbreak. Innocence commands our deepest love and our most

tender response, for we know the future in store for all beings yet untarnished by that

same knowledge—the knowledge that the world does need some sort of saving.

It’s a huge poem about love and human hope. How unlikely is this little hero, seen in the

goofy guise and costume of the Super-Hero, Batman, that singular figure of comic books

and movie screens, who becomes the first citizen of Gotham (New York City), engaged

in an endless, recycling fight for good over evil, justice over villainy. Caught here in

miniature is the world’s vast, overwhelming drama of forces that are moving inexorably

toward their destiny, and that sense of hope we must have , it seems, to live in the world

even a single day. For this supreme single moment, this baby is wholly unaware of it all.

For that reason, the mother’s love is all the more resplendent. The poem refuses post-

modern nihilism and re-invents the true face of heroic virtues. The world revealed here

is an authentic as any found anywhere in waka or tanka literature.

Of course, in Ness’s elegant encomium, Whitman is easily equivalent to any of the

wandering mendicant poets of Japan or China. The good, gray poet has left his boot

prints in our soil, literally and culturally. What impresses Ness about Whitman—his

complexity and passion—also impresses us. Individuality matters; the formation of

personal values, and the choices we make based on those values, matters. The song of

ourselves should not be dreaded as subject matter.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

18

Similarly, Riutta’s poem is a self-portrait of an American original—tough (he drives a

pick-up), fearless and a bit careless (he smokes cigarettes), and sensitive to and

appreciative of nature’s small, generous wonders (he inhales lilacs). The poem is styled

as a simple vignette. The “metro-male” of Montreal, New York City, or Los Angeles, has

nothing over the refinements of this unhorsed (chain smoking?) samurai of small-town,

rural, blue-collar America. I dislike paraphrasing such fine verse but am going to do so

anyway. In imagery that reads like a five-second clip from a James Dean movie, Riutta’s

tanka advises us that it is not what people call you that matters but what you answer to.

Sage wisdom from a poet so young.

Riutta’s tanka is balanced between the sensual, emotional, and romantic, and the classical

rationalism of detached self-awareness. Characteristic of many contemporary tanka in

English, Riutta’s poem results from a fusion of emotion (Romantic) with irony and

detached self-analysis: Why did anyone ever think these were mutually exclusive? The

point is made without the least fanfare or melodrama. Like the other poets here, Riutta

uses language that is spoken everyday by human lips. No fusty diction for him.

Rotella’s tanka is without an image, using non-emotive language to make a statement that

clearly has an emotive edge and is referential to the world outside the poem. [5]

All of these poems partake in the American pastime of myth-making and our need for

and creation of heroic figures: Maffei’s infant Batman and the mother who loves him;

Riutta’s James Dean-like figure of the common man, Ness’s Whitman, and Rotella’s

sense that all of this is “true” fiction, the substance and fiber of our lives—quite beyond

the abilities of reason to “figure out.” Knowledge is more than reason; knowledge exists

beyond the channels and tributaries of logic: We live and swim in broader waters.

In each poem, style, structure, and subject matter are inextricable; the substance

choreographs and determines the style, through idiom and phrasing, and the models for

both of these come from ordinary, everyday, contemporary speech, not from a

translation of the Man’yoshu or Kokinshu , or latest book of Saigyo’s waka. Neither Nature

nor God occupy the center of these poems. They are centered in what people do, say,

think and feel. To read and understand them, we need not be familiar with technical

concepts of juxtaposition or the aesthetics of aware or sabi. However, it would help to be

familiar with American culture, its icons both popular and obscure. The cues by which

ideas and feelings are communicated within that culture are the ore that tanka poets

regularly mine and use to shape and deliver their meaning.

The simplicity of these poems is not that of Saigyo or Ryokan but rises from the direct

(and ordinary) practicalities of American life and its common-sense witness by intelligent,

sensitive people who are not monks, hermits, or recluses. The poems convey no

detachment from society. In each poem, there is emphatic, individual statement and

declaration, opinion offered in poetry, without apology for the ego or self being present.

These are not exercises in zennist “wordlessness” or quietist Buddhist utterance. The

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

19

“aha!” moment in each poem is behavioral, and is recognizable and relished for its

insight and perfect capture of our own feelings and thought, going well beyond the

singular manifestations of nature, or the resonance of natural objects and phenomena

(alone) on human consciousness that so occupy haiku literature—Riutta’s inhalation of

lilacs being no exception. In each poem there is an unforced, self-declared reconciliation

of poetic vision—and the survivability and necessity of that vision—with contemporary

life and its practical, unpoetic requirements and “truths.” In each, the subtext is telling

us that if the pursuit of poetry puts in peril one’s worldly prospects, so be it—the tanka

as vehicle can accommodate even that. The voices and personalities in these poems may

not be fit for the Emperor or the court at Edo but they are alike with the old waka of

those milieus in their authority and cultural fingerprints.

Subjective realism inhabits the body of each poem. Each poem is grounded in human

experience while keeping aloft the Modernist sense that individual conviction matters.

Ordinary life can and does endow luminous moments. Those moments transform and

renew without forcing upon us a taste for the banal, the sentimental, or irrational longing

in pursuit of aspirations that seem always to be fighting the direction of the tide.

Compare these poems—their point of view, style, subject matter—to what you find in

Footsteps in the Fog , or to the representations of English-language tanka found in the early

anthologies named below. The difference is huge. And while you may find poems “like”

them in modern Japanese tanka, you will not find there poems having voices so distinctly

American in substance, attitude, or language

Modern English Tanka’s pages—all 1000+ of them in Volume 1, Numbers 1-4, and the

recently published first issue of Volume 2, are replete with the results of successful East-

West fusion.

“The Little Age of the Anthologies”

And so has begun our “Little Age of the Anthologies,” an attempt to compile and

present this remarkable literature in a form that might have some chance of preserving

it for deeper examination, discussion, study, and appreciation as a meaningful

contribution to the poetry of the (late) twentieth and twenty-first centuries. First,

however, two earlier anthologies deserve mention, as they will always be markers in the

history of the genre in English for their size, coverage, and authentic intention to

represent the tanka literature of their period:

– Sounds from the Unknown: A Collection of Japanese-American Tanka , edited and translated by

Lucille M. Nixon with Tomoe Tana. This book was published by the prestigious firm of

Alan Swallow, in Denver, 1963, and provides an invaluable record of work by tanka

poets who were virtually unknown outside the Japanese-American community but who

met in groups and writing circles throughout the United States (and in some cases, as a

part of life in the internment camps maintained by U.S. authorities for Japanese-

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

20

Americans during World War II).

– Wind Five Folded: An Anthology of English Language Tanka , edited by Jane and Werner

Reichhold. The first true anthology of tanka in English ( Footsteps in the Fog has already

been given the nod it is due as an interesting compendium collection), this book was

published in Gualala, California by the Reichhold’s AHA Books in 1994. Hardbound,

it contains some 600 tanka by 156 poets from seventeen countries.

The present “Little Age of the Anthologies” consists of the following titles:

– Full Moon Tide: The Best of Tanka Splendor 1990-1999 , edited by Linda Jeanette Ward

(Clinging Vine Press, 2001).

– In the Ship’s Wake: An Anthology of Tanka , edited by Brian Tasker (United Kingdom: Iron

Press, 2001).

– The Tanka Anthology: Tanka in English from Around the World , edited by Michael

McClintock, Pamela Miller Ness, and Jim Kacian (Red Moon Press, 2003).

– Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart , edited by M. Kei (M. Kei, Publisher,

2006).

– Sixty Sunflowers: Tanka Society of America Members’ Anthology 2006-2007 , edited by Sanford

Goldstein (Tanka Society of America and Modern English Tanka Press, 2007.

– Five Lines Down: A Landmark in English Tanka , compiled and edited by Denis M.

Garrison, with an Introduction by Michael McClintock. Contains all four issues of Five

Lines Down: a tanka journal, published from 1994-1996, Kenneth Tanemura, Editor, and

Sanford Goldstein, Co-editor.

Titles published by Modern English Tanka Press and co-edited by Denis M. Garrison

and Michael McClintock (the lead editor alternating):

– The Five-Hole Flute: Modern English Tanka in Sequences and Sets , (2006).

– The Dreaming Room: Modern English Tanka in Collage and Montage ( 2007).

– Landfall: Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka (Summer, 2007).

– Streetlights: Poetry of Urban Life in Modern English Tanka (Fall, 2007).

Additionally, the Ash Moon Anthology: Poems on Aging in Modern English Tanka , edited by

Alexis Rotella and Denis M. Garrison, is being compiled for release in early 2008.

These collections have already (or shortly will) change everything. Ward’s book, heading

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

21

the list, is a highly readable and welcome selection (by Ward) of the best poems to have

come out of the annual Tanka Splendor Awards sponsored by AHA Books. Some kind

of in-print cumulating of these results had been needed for a long time.

Sixty Sunflowers is listed here because, edited by Sanford Goldstein, it marks a clear

departure from past members’ anthologies published annually by the Tanka Society of

America in its editing, number of poems, size, and presentation.

The book, Five Lines Down: A Landmark in English Tanka, is also listed here, because it has

all the force and importance of the other anthologies for its representation of the

complete contents of that short-lived periodical during an otherwise somewhat quiet but

no less productive period of deepening interest in tanka in English following the 1994

publication of the Reichhold’s historic Wind Five Folded volume.

Tasker’s In the Ship’s Wake was, for many, disappointingly and needlessly abbreviated.

For all that, it has been a highly influential, valued anthology.

The Tanka Anthology will have to speak for itself, due to my obvious bias as its lead editor.

However, I will say that I and my fellow editors, Pamela Miller Ness and Jim Kacian,

decided such an anthology was needed largely because we could not understand why

Tasker had been so parsimonious with In the Ship’s Wake . We knew Tasker to be a solid

critic and pioneer of tanka in Britain. Tasker’s book assembled a cast of capable tankaists

but was grievously stingy with its selections. For me, his omissions were very hard to

take, much less understand. It was a classic case of throwing out the baby with the bath

water, or missing the forest for a few diseased trees, thorny vines, and tangled weeds. I

saw little reason at that time to define the genre’s achievements in English by relegating

its survey to those examples of tanka that make your hair stand on end and dread fill

your heart.

Still, the book has had impact, and there is no doubt that almost every poem in it is a

zinger. Perhaps that is all that matters? Tasker’s criticisms of the genre, in his

introduction, focus on the bottom performances and appear, strangely, to be

unconscious of the breadth and depth of the real lake that was already there, sparkling

and morning fresh. Had he only looked further! In spite of these shortcomings, his

observations still make worthwhile reading. Tasker’s reasoning is sound; it’s the view that

is foreshortened and narrow.

Over four thousand tanka are contained in the volumes mentioned here, boiled down

from submissions in excess of 20,000 poems. Many more anthologies appear to lie

ahead. Along with these titles come new, substantial collections by individual poets, from

both new and familiar names in the genre.

I don’t know if there is a similar burgeoning of tanka journal and magazine start-ups

contemplated, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Websites, chat groups, and blogosphere

traffic have certainly seemed to be on steroid-and-hormone cocktails lately. As a side-

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

22

note, the leading haiku journals of the United Kingdom— Blithe Spirit , edited by Graham

High for the British Haiku Society, and Presence , edited by Martin Lucas—are far in

advance of their New World counterparts in the USA, such as Modern Haiku and

Frogpond , in welcoming and even shyly requesting a larger presence of tanka in their

pages. Still, no one has come close to equaling Canada’s often very raw and very woolly

Raw Nervz in this respect. Edited under Dorothy Howard, et al , Raw Nervz trumped

everyone in its long running (1993-2006) blend of haiku, tanka, and related forms and

genres. How I miss that crazy, gutsy, tender, wonderful, not-always-successful but

unfailingly surprising, nervy little magazine!

From “Movement” to “Seismic Shift”

Probably most of us will be dead before anyone knows whether or not this “Little Age

of the Anthologies” was, in retrospect, as big as it sometimes now feels. That’s cultural

evolution for you. A seismic shift in poetry and its prosody? In the short English lyric,

yes—that may be all that is reasonable to expect or even wish for, and that is no small

accomplishment. Literature, to thrive, needs all its parts. In English, the short poem has

had only a marginal role. With tanka, and with haiku, too, that absence from the wider

scene has already changed. Fifty years of writing both has made of both more than a

passing “movement” or temporary infatuation. Each has built up and achieved a culture

which, though comparatively small, has yet survived long enough to involve three

generations.

Tanka continues to attract new writers while holding on to its veterans; it grows more

robust, varied, and sure of its present and future. Even though I draw these speculations

from much of the best and most recent tanka and its scholarship, commentary, and

discussion by both familiar and new writers, the longevity of tanka in English is an

undeniable fact. Its long career alone may attract many to attempt to assay the

movement’s real cultural worth, and may bring critics and historians closer to assessing

and even admiring how that long period of development was put to use.

The anthologies and collections to which I’ve referred here so briefly and sketchily

appear bound to revive or spark anew interest in the short poem in English and

specifically in the cross-cultural discernments that are so liberally reflected and unleashed

in the energy and ingenuity of contemporary tanka in English.

Let’s enjoy what we have: These days belong to us. Make some room on your bookshelf

today.

—Michael McClintock, Contributing Editor

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

23

Notes:

1. A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry , edited and with an introduction by Czeslaw

Milosz (Harcourt Brace & Company, 1996).

2. 1994 saw two tanka anthologies published. Jane Reichhold’s Wind Five Folded was the first anthology of

tanka in English to take a worldwide survey and, in my mind, stands as the landmark of the year

for tanka. Published in hardback by AHA Books, Wind Five-Folded contains over 600 poems by

over 130 poets from 17 nations.

Footsteps in the Fog, edited by Michael Dylan Welch , may take credit as the first anthology of Bay

Area (San Francisco) tanka poets writing in English. It is a small, spine-stapled, 48-page chapbook-

like collection containing sample tanka by six men and one woman. Technically, Footsteps is exactly

what Welch called it at the time: a compendium , a kind of treatise intended to address the question,

“What is tanka?,” through a combination of short essays and poems from its seven contributors.

3. “A Review of Footsteps in the Fog” by Tom Lynch, p. 36-38. Woodnotes [No. 21], Summer 1994. The entire

review, as well as Sanford Goldstein’s reply to it (published in the short-lived journal Five Lines

Down) , are reprinted by Modern English Tanka Press in the book, Five Lines Down: A Landmark in

English Tanka (2007).

4. Sources for poems quoted: “Halloween” from Drops from Her Umbrella by Laura Maffei (Inkling, 2006);

“Whitman wrote:” from Limbs of the Gingko by Pamela Miller Ness (Swamp Press, 2005); “It

screeches to a stop” from The Pie in Pieces by Andrew Riutta (River Man Publishing, Sweden, 2006);

“No use trying” by Alexis Rotella from a forthcoming book of her selected tanka, Lip Prints (MET

Pr., 2007).

5. For more extended discussion of this poem, see “Preface to Lip Prints ” by Michael McClintock, Modern

English Tanka , Volume 2, Number 1, Autumn 2007.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

24

T A N K A

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

25

Hortensia Anderson

full moon

only you at my window

an empty face—

did loneliness wipe away

the last traces of passion?

for my death

there will be no flowers

falling from the sky—

the petals on my bed

will have stayed by my side

in the wide sweep

of wind-sculpted dunes

i found undisturbed

the tiny trail

of a sandpiper

their effervescence

held in the frozen black lake—

white ice bubbles

untouched by the swirling

blades of figure skaters

Frost moon—

a chill wind gathers strength

in my loneliness;

will these weak and bitter tears

on my pillow turn to ice?

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

26

Hortensia Anderson

last night—

a full moon and chrysanthemums

against the deep sky

all those round blank faces

whispering nothing . . .

An unexpected frost

holds scarlet leaves in ice—

as autumn passes

will the pain of transience

die with beauty’s pleasure?

Winter night—

the moon a perfect circle

cut in the sky;

her twin frozen on the pond,

hazy around the edges

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

27

Aurora Antonovic

thunder resounds

in the background

like a warning . . .

if I could just say it aloud

it would go away

quiet—

I’ve always yearned

for silence

on this still night

even the wren’s cry is jarring

three days

the canvas remains pristine

untouched, white

nothing to paint or write about

while you are gone

not content

with just bubbles

I add bath salts too

the lavender-rising scent proving

just how spoiled I’ve become

photos

of my friend

playing Frisbee

his extended arms

waiting for a hug

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

28

Aurora Antonovic

running

to the subway

this autumn morning

our uplifted faces

bathed in rain

when he knew

I drank tea, he brought a box

from each country he traveled

today he loves me

from Shanghai

rain on the beach

a tape from my friend . . .

a small piece

of him in each

tiny drop

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

29

Megan Arkenberg

after all these years

a single branch

of love-lies-bleeding

separating yours

from mine

sponge painting . . .

I dab life onto

these gray walls

in a color

you would have hated

first frost

in the moment of silence

for his sudden death

the sudden awareness

of my own beating heart

the growing space

between water and ice

this February morning

we become

better strangers

garbage day

between the slush

and opening primroses

someone’s love note

blows down the street

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

30

Megan Arkenberg

after the fireworks

counting the stars

with his hand in mine

I run out

of wishes

all this week

the rain

and now, your letter

if only these clouds

and you would fade

old poems

from his journal

imagining them

read aloud

in your voice

between two mirrors

on opposite walls . . .

the difference

between you

and me

after her surgery

wondering

how I will recognize

the woman

in the wheelchair

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

31

Megan Arkenberg

closed buds

out my window . . .

wishing I, too

could rest

a little longer

even this maple

has only room

for two swallows—

when did I become

the other woman?

The bed

where we once slept

no longer holds your shape;

did you think my heart would hold it

longer?

learning from

a friend of a friend

that you are gone

somehow I knew

you’d never keep that promise

in the base of our oak tree

a pair of strangers

have carved their names

the scent of autumn

grows fainter

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

32

Megan Arkenberg

the photos of you

still in my camera

at the end of the day

so much I find is left

undeveloped

taking a walk

this snowy evening

hand in hand

not even our shadows

betray us

just as I pretend

not to see you crying

on the back porch steps

I pretend not to know

I am the reason why

I see her watching us

over your shoulder

this beautiful girl

who once stood here

watching me

the first I-love-you

spills out by mistake . . .

in the after silence

a book falls from the shelf

landing half-opened

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

33

Megan Arkenberg

ice-glistened thorns

all pointing inward . . .

I begin to understand

why my parents

planted barberry

I see now

what brought me here—

no matter how strong the wind

a leaf may not cling

to two branches

in this heavy mist

only the pine scent

anchors us—but

what fog in the world

could hide us from ourselves?

looking for an excuse

to touch your hair

I lean across the table—

the shape of her name

in your notebook

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

34

Ronald Baatz

Orange peels—

the shadows of them

as I remember

the shadows of them

curling in childhood

That you don’t smile

is a mystery to me—

when those cold grapes

touch your

breakfast lips

The cry of rain—

gentle as a

single cricket

that has all

of evening to itself

Leave me bread

at least a few slices

leave me your voice

at least a few words

to go with the bread

The wind—

the only messenger

to make it this far

and now drunk

in the willows

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

35

Ronald Baatz

Old three-legged dog

chasing after

a winter sun

that’s cold and

hobbling on one leg

A bitter wind

coming up the road—

the same road I use

when coming home

late at night

As though miraculously

fattened on frost—

the sparrow that lands

in the gray

apple tree

February wind—

it seems to know

how to work

the zipper

on my pants

In the garden

on the head of the Buddha—

a chickadee

keeping its feet

out of the snow

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

36

Ronald Baatz

Damn, such a cold night

under so many stars—

not even the warmth

of a cricket’s sigh

to comfort us

Digging

her canary’s grave

she catches the reflection

of lovely orange feathers

in the spoon

O lord,

let me

stay drunk somehow

without this drinking

now and forever, amen.

Unwritten poems—

so many of them

hanging like bats

inside the darkness

of me

Who better

than this childhood friend

to sit by the pond with

to wait for some sign

of fish

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

37

Ronald Baatz

On a gorgeous summer’s day

I walk between the dark shelves—

all the books in the library

smelling like

old girlfriends

Overnight my eyes grow old—

first women comment on them

then men do

then evening’s

last bird

They come back in dreams—

the dead and those

who are just gone

gone from your life

you gone from theirs

Don’t dog

don’t go dying on me

don’t go dying

on this cold day

in this field hard as rock

That is not

a little god

hanging there

it is a light bulb

naked and burning

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

38

Ronald Baatz

In the middle of the night

I come upon loneliness

in the kitchen

eating the last

of the expensive liverwurst

So much light

so much darkness—

the earth crying out

like a clarinet

left behind

So many crows—

as though the earth

is turning black

from so many bones

buried in it

Can’t blame the crickets

for crying out hour after hour—

summer having lied about

how long

it’d stay

In a sorrowful mood I go

to pick up my father’s ashes but

arrive an hour late

having forgotten to

turn the clock ahead

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

39

Ronald Baatz

After scrabble in bed

I see a vowel

stuck to her tailbone

as she turns to sleep

facing the wall

Sure—

it’d be nice if my mind

were a reflection

of the universe

and not that of a hamster’s cage

The stars over the lake

are so old and brittle looking—

I stop rowing, rest my back

and think of how soft

my ashes will be

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

40

Pamela A. Babusci

offering chrysanthemums

to the buddha . . .

the only sacrifice

i ever made

was letting you go

First Place Winner Kokako Tanka Competition, New Zealand 2007

can one love

god & sex

with the same intensity?

she slips on silk stockings

& goes to daily mass

he left me

between kisses

where does

one hide

the frail moon?

buying a sexy blouse

he would despise

the divorcee

who never

enjoyed sex

won’t you

slow-dance with me

until we collapse

under the weight

indigo moonbeams

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

41

Pamela A. Babusci

we will never

completely

understand each other . . .

preparing separate beds

with a heavy heart

the coolness of your lips—

you cannot hide

your fading passion

i cannot look into

your cheating eyes

he leaves

this morning

without touching her . . .

between sips of java

a bitter taste

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

42

Dave Bacharach

my old horse

roams through fields choked

with laurel

once we both were heroes

but that was long ago

the coal train

gives off a low wail as it

shuffles past me

with each car

I grow older, older . . .

we talk

my brother and I

about home—

none of us got out

uncrippled, he says

a dreamcatcher

hangs in the car next to mine

at a red light—

the driver blows

cigarette smoke through it

they lower

my mother slowly

slowly down . . .

a guy on the hill

smokes beside his backhoe

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

43

Dave Bacharach

before she dies

regrets and apologies

from my mother—

how little, though,

it all matters

the red poppies

that were torn apart

by fire trucks

when the barn burned—

I miss them most

a storm gathers

the night she comes

to say goodbye—

her love for travel

my love for home

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

44

Shawn Bowman

A church

and a graveyard

adorned only with light

. . . and a road, a road is the space

between

How to

explain so much

to you in this short time—

all kinds of flowers I have no

names for

Wanting

to be blameless

but then this band of birds

and who knows which one makes the noise

pretty

Love is

a fit subject

anytime, a springboard

for even hate, so strange a thing

Love is.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

45

James Roderick Burns

City of vistas—

between straw coloured buildings

and tarpaulin skies

this sliver of mountain, sharp

as a shower of arrows.

My daughter’s lucid

observations on the moon

just slightly tarnished

when she suggests we drive home

to write them down for mommy.

O suburban wind

buffeting the spider’s web

with great turtlewax fingers

and bucketfuls of cut grass—

spare us this gift of nature.

Not even the moon

over a quiet city,

this slanting sunlight

joining the day to evening

is enough to make me stay.

New supermarket—

I watch the unraveling

helix of balloons

but instead of life’s secrets

comes a great fat-fingered clown.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

46

James Roderick Burns

In the wing mirror’s

disarticulated shards

yesterday’s madness

and the fickleness of crowds,

your face composing itself.

Cart me up here, wife

when I shrug off my harness

knock down the blacksmith

and forsake this bag of oats

for some airy chariot.

In my waking dream

the chocolate finger house

on the edge of town

is only cladding—inside

a skeleton of memos.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

47

Dina E. Cox

from the tongues

of dead men

living water

Bach winds through winter trees

your song becomes my heartbeat

the way a moth

struggles

to get in . . .

not unlike the way a thought

tendrils membranes to get out

this morning

a dusting of pollen

covers everything

soon a new season will shape

the seamless edge of longing

I am

all the brothers and sisters

I never had

each shattered piece of my heart

sheds sibling tears for our father

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

48

Melissa Dixon

a book on Tibet—

awed by the author’s

mountain journey

I sip hot chocolate

to keep up my strength

weary

of winter streets, I stop

at the florist—

an armful of willow boughs

foreshadows early spring!

thin winter rain

touches my face, tracing

old memories—

on my brow the last

sweet brush of your mouth

tidal pools—

miniature sea creatures

in a tiny world—

are we as fascinating

to someone Out There?

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

49

Garry Eaton

Island Home

a few red flowers

extended on a graceful vine

hang down

to where the wind

stirs them into motion

beyond them

framed by stucco arch

the sea horizon

shows in white relief

a group of slender sails

so distant

as to barely seem

to move

within the calmness

of the sunlit bay

in dock at length

the ship that lately brought

our child back

to his island home

waits with his coffin

and a crowd

of island neighbors dear

stand by

for us to lead them

down the harbor hill

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

50

Garry Eaton

a few moments

before delivering ourselves

we linger

looking at the sea

listening to the sea

whose coiling

’round us has assigned

this heavy task—

as parent patriots

to tend our hero’s grave

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

51

Amelia Fielden

And Now the Peonies . . . A Tanka String

waking today

to the sounds of chirping

from grandkids

in their nests upstairs

above the guest room

first sight of

orange monster poppies—

“I only like

the little pink ones”

says the child, running off

hovering

low over the lake

a seagull

flashes the soft whiteness

of its underbelly

two ducklings

follow mum’s twilight wake

into the reeds,

a black dog shaking, sprays

the bank with silver

unmasked, at last

she knows I’m Grandma—

laburnum trees

let down their yellow tresses

for the sunlight of spring

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

52

Amelia Fielden

trying out

my new identity

mid May

in a Seattle suburb

with Van Gogh irises

another spring

of rhododendrons

exuberantly

purple, pink, crimson—

I should have had more faith

her son’s fingers

tangling her long dark hair—

just yesterday

it seems, I brushed and

braided that hair for school

arum lilies

for her first Mother’s Day

my daughter

her daughter and I

looking at them together

this small girl

picks a buttercup, puts it

under her chin

just how my grandmother

showed me sixty years ago

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

53

Amelia Fielden

reflections

at Green Lake yellow iris

three ducklings,

spring is about new life—

easy to forget at my age

here am I

fifty years later

still studying

on a sunny porch,

still loving light and learning

she asks me

to tie her balloon

to a chair

while she is sleeping,

lest it fly back to the shop

an award

that will take me to New York—

no longer

can I even imagine

the remainder of my life

on the Sound

below snow-spattered ranges

one yacht sails

so slowly I’ve time

to sort my water-colours

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

54

Amelia Fielden

strolling past

lush gardens at dusk, missing

my husband

the sensuality

of scarlet azaleas

on our porch

multi-hued fuchsia bells

in the warm breeze

stroking each other

like muted windchimes

dove trees blossom

in this land still at war

with Iraq—

the complacent feel

of a Public Holiday

the house next-door

hangs the Stars and Stripes

to protect

the sleep of a black cat

in this strange country

sunbathers

scores of them stretching out

in the park

among a myriad of daisies,

now it’s seventy degrees

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

55

Amelia Fielden

blue eyes sparkling

she sings ‘twinkle twinkle

little s-tar’,

emphasizing the ‘s’

she’s just learned to pronounce

Green Lake morning

a Monet landscape

of water-lilies

in the silver mirror

beyond the willows

footpaths fringed

with buttercups and daisies

everywhere

the scent of roses—

a storybook summer

long light evenings,

the insistent singing

of unknown birds—

is it really right

for me to be here now

on the front lawn

a Norman Rockwell picture

two small children

playing ball, and a collie

who’s chasing butterflies

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

56

Amelia Fielden

outnumbered

surrounded by geese

a small duck

manoeuvres six babies

into safer waters

back in the lake

little duckling ! this bank

is dangerous—

see, there are labradors

straining at their leashes

blooming

too heavy for their stems

peony heads

lean onto the lawn—

how sweet these kids’ dependence

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

57

Samuel Fretwell

watching dark clouds

take the mesa

I drop the gardenhouse, wonder

how for seven years

I endured your silence

waking north of Taos

snow holds

in the shadows still,

mother of our child,

how I think of you now

waiting alone

in a crowded café,

such ornate snowflakes

still melting

on the road home

Ava, early storm left

few aspen leaves,

quaking steadfast mother,

midwife explained,

breathed you to us

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

58

Bernard Gadd

In Memoriam, 1935–2007

in shock . . .

our young daughter

sees her name

on the list

of war dead

street lights,

headlights . . .

your skin

over and over

alters colour

intricate muscles

beautiful legs

in streams in snow

and now guiding patients

in the eye clinic

in the grove

your skin’s like

a camouflage

I recall looking

for you tree by tree

It was with shock that we learned of the death of the fine New Zealand poet,

editor and mentor to many young people, Bernard Gadd, during December 2007.

Bernard was a regular contributor to Modern English Tanka and well known

in a number of poetry venues. He will be greatly missed.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

59

Joshua Gage

her hair

across her back

rises and falls. She sleeps

naked by moonlight, and I watch

her breathe.

sparks off

my cigarette

flee out the car’s window

to rise into the night and fade

to stars

our cat

sprawls on the rug

like ink scrawled on parchment

composing poems I’m too human

to read

her kiss

hints of candy

ginger. I feel the burn

begin back in my ears, but I

can’t stop

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

60

Joshua Gage

The bass

is thick tonight,

heavy enough to wade

through. The band burns, and the scotch fades

off key.

Heaven

is seven notes

away. The lights are dimmed,

and the club is a church, aching

for psalms.

“Write poems,”

the lake begs. “Write

poems,” the forest rustles

“that people remember to grieve

for us.”

The band

rolls narcotic

harmonies into us.

We inhale like drowning men breathe

the waves.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

61

Denis M. Garrison

violins, of course,

can make my heart gently ache

ah! such sweet laments

trains at night; their songs pierce me . . .

haunting horns and endless wheels

Dad said, see this ball,

look, it has two sharp edges

—but it’s round , I said—

we played ‘catch’ with it awhile

then he threw it at my head

Dad said yin and yang . . .

I just stared stupidly;

he said use and abuse

and when I sneered he slapped me

then he held me tenderly

tenderloin alley

saturated with old pain

soaked in suffering

faded bricks brood in shadow

even in the noonday sun

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

62

Victor P. Gendrano

a brisk breeze blasts

the last remaining leaf

this blustery day

his wife of many years

has gone to rest

For Darrell

the bees struggle

to free themselves

from the maple syrup

the entanglements

of forbidden love

scent of jasmine wafts

through her open door

this sultry evening

she calls him to say

don’t be late coming

the torn jacket

and worn-out cane

lie near a trash bin

his chuckle still echoes

from the empty bed

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

63

Beverley George

for MH

headland winds . . .

too many crested waves

to count each seventh—

by what capricious element

did you become my friend?

stillness inside

the Casuarina grove. . .

at your green cottage

you serve me leaf-brewed tea

in a bone china cup

exchanging words

—ours and those of others—

I glimpse

your private satisfactions

a few unvoiced regrets

when I praise

your wryness and poesy

do you believe me?

your hand beneath my elbow

for all my far-flung strivings

white-haired now

you walk through salty air. . .

a flannel flower

tilts from crumbling soil

towards a sun-flint ocean

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

64

Gina

tall and straight now

i wish you could see

the dogwood you planted

before its shadow bends

in the winter wind

in the shallows

where once we danced

tiny shells jostle

murmuring of cold

and distance

the taste of purple

in a grape explodes

at dawn

i go from waiting to not

loving you

sorting through things—

your promise to return

and forget-me-nots

harder to discard

than your photos

sunning himself

a blackbird on a sheep’s back

in tall wheat grass

the red remains

of an old plough

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

65

Sanford Goldstein

Irreverent Tanka

and again

the strangeness in me

of munching chocolate

during that Holocaust

documentary

once more

a haiku cuteness

in the mags—

and I kick last night’s tanka

downstairs

bare

these five lines down,

subject lost

in the mangling

of plus, of minus

a rapid

vapidity circling in fives

in mind corners—

ten thousand miles

can’t walk it away

was that bright moon

just over the upper pane

out to tease

this celibate me

into arousing dormancy?

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

66

Sanford Goldstein

it takes

only a slight shift

in molecular bombardment

to bring on

the Saturday night mood

something

deficient

too

even in church

organs

all night

as if I had things to do,

a simple tossing aside

of these brown blankets

and standing to trace a white moon

I think back now

not as far as Eden

only a window distance

where lamppost lights tell me

memory is as lasting as circumcision

I never wrote

all night to look up dazed

at ashtrays piled high,

I never said

I’ve more ego to put down

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

67

Sanford Goldstein

tired

of flowers and birds

and leaves?—

under this vegetation

nasty eruptions wait

correcting

my granddaughter’s spelling of

syphilis and gonorrhea,

I know she wants

an A on the test

today’s

a carbon copy

gone through—

even the November light

did its usual thing

again

November’s assigned frequencies

and I prepare

to rack a turkey, tool a pie,

and stand by a pot of red

I float

from woman to man,

drink in hand,

and for a while, napkin crushed,

I click off problems of the world

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

68

Sanford Goldstein

into the profundities of

cocktail talk about hostages

and elections,

I toss down

a startling cliché

many of us

walk along foreign streets

without knives or guns,

looking only for bus stops

or coffee shops with separate tables

there are bugs

crawling in these lines,

sweet Jane,

though a few have wings

for flight

songs were sung

at the Saturday morning

service

and sometimes

God stole in

syrup

on my french toast—

oh, shoulder-resting muse,

I shall turn this brief stretch

of space into gluttony

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

69

Sanford Goldstein

I talk

of the dead one again and again

as if to ward off

touch, connection—

my listener orders spumoni

I begin

to feel

even my periphery

stance to life

is too close

was it

the narrow

niche

of last night’s morality

that brought on today’s rain?

I lock out

the world,

I face

the flat,

I prepare pans, plates

no thief

robbed

my Japanese flat—

I find

no moon in my window

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

70

Sanford Goldstein

a wave

of sadness

heavy as tsunami

lands, lashes

my unrequited

I dig

back and back to the terrors

of my boyhood—

was that where all

the hesitancy came from?

I have missed

visits to the ill

and dying

as if only memory will do

to keep them whole

with grim faces

these tv Japanese

ate,

ate the one million yen

Chinese banquet tiger-penis

of late

everywhere I see

the pinched niches,

the joy sucked out,

the freedom through ringers

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

71

Sanford Goldstein

my finite

yearning

as usual

was not much

once achieved

tell me,

my tanka muse,

how my world

can narrow and dwindle

even more to periphery

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

72

Andrea Grillo

Summer’s End . . . a tanka string

warm nights

I undress by an open

window wondering

what is freely given

freely taken

forty years

after the riots

three students slain

no apparent cause

again, this blistering heat

born to love

born to hunt

we do what we do

all the songs all the poems

nothing changes this

coming in on

a soft summer breeze

tickling my neck

and dropping down low

this sadness for what

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

73

Michele Harvey

facing

a cloudless sky

above the river

a lone speck atop the span

deciding to jump

curled around

the rhythm of the surf

my first time

trying to catch

a wave in my hand

the road crew

rattling down the road

to cut more trees

their predestined loss

already in my bones

her quilt was sewn

from scraps of fabric

of family clothes

stitched into a new design

where all mistakes are forgiven

the children

were told to play outside

those afternoons

when their dad was at work

the ‘friendly man’ came calling

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

74

Michele Harvey

she flies

in her street clothes

ordinary

she gathers the wind

into her arms in her dreams

his temper

lost amidst a torrent

harsher words

saved for private places

buried deep in her heart

a lone cornstalk

in the field of stubble

I’m an old hand

of turning seasons

and friends gone before

shaping daydreams

she drew a courageous life

a dragon slayer

without playground taunts

and the titter of girls

broken windows

help the wind lean harder

into the house

wild grapevine makes it sink

into the surrounding corn

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

75

Michele Harvey

in the drought

apples tart and small

miserly

the many kind words

he kept to himself

she looked

here and there

in each room

she looked a hundred times

for the child she had lost

the military

marched him off to war

away from himself . . .

the little boy who flew kites

out further than the string

a kettle

of rising vultures

stirs the blue

in a soft voice he asks

how long have you known?

pieces of me

in the family car

driven away

adventures I no longer share

with the husband I once loved

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

76

Michele Harvey

training wheels

the sudden push and release

my father smiles

like his own father

thirty years ago

his gentle voice

on the answering machine

calling

to hear it once more

before he’s buried

center stage

in the middle of the room

your brass bed

the voices of other lovers

in every creak

planting spruces

to hide the road

the rumble

of gravel trucks

caught in your throat

a speckled sky

pushed by the wind

blue and white

has breezed through my heart

and swept it clean

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

77

C W Hawes

Oh! the stillness

of this autumn morning

and the sunrise . . .

the rustle of the leaves:

the whisper of the One.

folded now

and withered is the

orchid blossom

memories I have

of stunning perfection

in my room

intently focusing

on the prayer

yet this wandering mind

betrays my weak heart

the sound of the rain

falling outside my window

before the dawn

are you a child once again

playing in Mombasa

this short hour

before the sky reddens

in the east

when the door opens

and Paradise is glimpsed

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

78

C W Hawes

in my dream

I’m running up the stairs

once again

the short trip to the kitchen

takes me forever

watching

the clouds fast-moving

from my sickbed

the antibiotics

taking their own sweet time

I’m fading

becoming a simple

nothing

this orchid bloom

this brown papery thing

quietly

the rain washes

my balcony

how long to wash

away these hills

the bulldozer

rests this Sunday morning

by the huge scar

I remember here

there were raspberries

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

79

C W Hawes

my magic wand

I can’t remember where

I left it

that house of beige stucco

sitting on the hill

everything

I had everything once

upon a time

the moon huge and orange

the trees becoming bare

foam on the tea

tan surge on a red-brown sea

only you, me . . .

this day in late summer

slipping through my fingers

so quiet

this suburban morning:

only a chirp

the passing of a small plane

the tire’s faint song

the flute player

sitting alone in the corner

plays his song

is the voice of God only

black letters on a page

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

80

John L. Holgerson

the absence of you

a shawl across my shoulders

drawn tighter by

the stillness of trees

the silence of birds

watching the moon float

amid cruising charcoal clouds

an ashen buoy

on an onyx ocean

I thought of you tonight

the old dog lies down

headstone shade blankets him

he waits as before

head on the ground dreaming

in smell of earth, scent of home

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

81

Elizabeth Howard

driving the path

of a pioneer road

in an ATV

a blue heron still fishing

in an old watering hole

in the littered yard

a motorcycle under a tarp

trailer windows punched out

babies nest on a damp cot

wrapped in lies and pot smoke

after the retreat

women writers carry home

images of deer in the fog

bluebirds on a frosty branch

visions of sisterhood

where the stream flowed

to the bend in the fence

this year of drought

horses nose rocks,

sip dust

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

82

Kirsty Karkow

no time to spend

a quiet day alone . . .

I get cranky

pansy faces smile unseen

and song birds feed next door

having stopped

to view the cabbage fields

my mind wanders—

as each green globe is plucked—

to sauerkraut and kings

an avid gardener

she tends hybrid roses

her children

fair-haired little girls

named Pebble, Robin, Heather

deep in the grass

eye to eye with daisies

it was purple vetch

that wrapped my wrist

and drew me to my knees

when the bell rings

calling me back home

should I swim

boldly across the river

or walk back through the field?

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

83

Kirsty Karkow

here we are

beneath clear skies

I will not drop

this stone

into lake water

imagining

I am about to die . . .

the brave look

backward with forgiveness

the brave step forward

no backpack

for this journey . . .

nothing

to weigh down

the wings of night

A Peek through Nets of Mace

baby feet

swing back and forth

over mown grass

all I know held firmly

in my parents’ grip

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

84

Kirsty Karkow

a tropic rain

drenches the garden

most afternoons

two years old and shiny wet

I run naked through it

sandy toes

and sandy fingers

popping seaweed . . .

safely in my rubber ring

I play in shallow waves

no way to squeeze

through our iron gates . . .

the color! the music!

the leaping joy of crowds

in the street at Carnival

sullen air

and tropic moonlight

bathing my cot

the steel drum melodies

from a nearby hill

the tallest trees!

my small self gathers

nutmegs

their lustrous cocoa shine

peeks through nets of mace

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

85

M. Kei

The First Day of the Year

Muslim law:

a hanged body

neatly shrouded

will this small reverence

heal a bleeding country?

a worn threshold

between yesterday

and tomorrow,

no dawn

to light the step

a little ink

on my hand next

to the blister;

better to roll up the blind

and remember

I heard them

last night, celebrating

with fireworks

in this rainy dawn

I drink my tea alone

no sun,

but still the day brightens,

a lesson, perhaps,

for one given to

poetry and fantasy

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

86

M. Kei

now I have a reason

to keep watch at this window;

a hope that today of all days

she will remember me

with kindness

New Year’s Day

once she was real, but

she has dwindled at last

to a memory and

scattered poems

his hands claw the carpet,

desperate

for handholds

to keep him from

falling off the world

È

February

the furnace

rattles through the night,

never listening

to what winter says

a flight of hawks

lifting the clouds

with their wings,

winter settles heavier

without them

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

87

M. Kei

ladled out of

mother’s womb,

I continue to

splatter and spill

this life of mine

being a poet,

I can only speak to you

through a mask

that looks like

my own face

did I expect

enlightenment?

this open window

this open mind

this blank page

brushing my teeth,

I pause to listen—

my daughter’s singing

drifts down the hall

through the closed door

Diet Barq’s Rootbeer—

she is particular

about these things,

my daughter who is now

the woman of the house

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

88

M. Kei

promises I make:

to help my daughter

sew her dress

so that she can dance

the dream she almost forgot

sheets of rain—

nowhere can I see

the sparrows,

but still the brightness

of their small voices

this green cove

where I return after

long days at sea

is the only place

I wish to drop my anchor

some mornings

when the sky

is still grey

a cat with amber eyes

walks through my dreams

one bamboo

in a vase full

of pebbles,

holding winter

at bay

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

89

Kathy Kituai

photographs

in a three tiered frame

tumble

into a decoupage—

nieces nephew regret

worth waiting for—

your deliberate stretching

of each wing

this slow feathering

happening within me

the Buddha

cross-legged rotund

smiling

blissfully on the table

amidst biscuit crumbs

Peace Pagoda

made from a single tee—

sacred site

being photographed

behind bikini clad girls

standing alone

in front of this year’s iris

embracing the wind

practicing standing alone

without you here beside me

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

90

Kathy Kituai

what prompts each iris

to raise such fragile petals

every winter

would that your father had seen

your eyes were soft . . . and as blue

i.m. of Geoff Williams

cast off

five hundred miles out

at sea

in search of the man

she knows you to be

palm fronds

I meant to sweep up

blown

against the fence

into neater piles

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

91

Joseph V. Kleponis

from the fire’s ashes

a curling plume of smoke rises

drifting on the wind—

memories of days with you

carried into the white clouds

walking down the path

lined with arching maples

your back turned to me

in nonchalant midstride—

my only picture of you

water stains

on the magazine covers—

sunlight on the chair

fading the upholstery—

your imprint always remains

indelible marks—

lightning’s scarring of a tree

words on a page

promises whispered to you

in the half light of morning

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

92

Gary LeBel

Leaves blow in

through the door I opened—

scraping along the floor

her footsteps also

sound like sorrow.

The world above

and the one beneath closed eyes—

the Hermes

in our hearts that runs so hard

between them.

Between dreaming

and waking

drifts a blood-red canoe,

and still paddling in our twenties

there is me, there is you.

Who knows precisely

when the pine-wind changed

from dithyramb to dirge:

with such knowledge only the locust

can be trusted.

With lizard-like gazes

an old couple eats wordlessly

at the restaurant

each desperately avoiding

the other’s light.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

93

Gary LeBel

As mists enshroud

the wind-bent cedars of the inlet,

my arms confess to their body

of the life they’ve spent

gathering waves.

A crow-wind,

crow-sky, crow-island:

even the see-thru worlds

in my head are riddled

with a swirl of black wings.

Ocean waves break

through the darkness beyond the balcony—

faithful all these years,

that winsome sea,

exactly my age.

Years of rains have hollowed

deep grooves in the sandstone

with a loose, meandering grace,

the divine’s elegant spade

of least-resisted paths.

Cicada-cries,

the weed-choked yards of shacks,

junk cars and paint-peeling heat,

doors always closing:

my ‘Whitman list’ today.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

94

Gary LeBel

Though a bridge

could have been built just now between us

with our gazes,

for the phantom tingling of rivers

we settle once more.

The woods grow cold;

yellow leaves pile up like hours

each with its stem

that still tugs a little

at the branch.

Awakened

at three in the morning by the cries

of passing geese,

I stand at my window

nameless as a deer.

Ten miles ahead in the dark

I can already smell it, can already

feel the cold, clammy fingers

of its alluvial ghosts,

the Mississippi.

As if ascending

from an underworld that opened somewhere

in these bottomlands,

the chalk-white faces of cows

parade slowly thru the gloaming.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

95

Gary LeBel

‘Look, how clear the skies

are tonight,’ he says.

‘I sometimes forget

it’s a planet

we’re on.’

Placed a bookmark in Yeats

then strode down the deserted beach,

driven on alone

by the melancholy engines

of the surf.

Father, the tree you planted for me

grew so tall you had to cut it down

but know its bright leaves

still tremble

in your voice.

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

96

Jean LeBlanc

the lake : a tanka sequence

Once, the wind

swept our beginner’s sailboat

through a world of blue.

Now I’m a landlubber,

content with shades of gray.

The moon in ribbons

on the surface of the lake.

Worried, as you kissed me,

who might be watching:

turtle, bluegill, muskrat, snail.

How far can laughter

carry, on a calm day,

skimming over little waves—

thirty years, and suddenly

it reaches my ears.

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

97

Angela Leuck

cherry blossoms—

I send him

a photo

of myself

from long ago

feeling nostalgic

as I walk the campus

of my old college—

by the notice board

a jumble of wild roses

breakfast on the patio

bright-coloured zinnias

glowing in the sun

I add tropical fruit

to my granola

white stone Virgin

in a garden grotto

pink roses at her side

before her

the blood red geraniums

slowly surrounding

the statue

of St. Francis

a silent invasion

of ivy

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

98

Angela Leuck

no sunflowers

in your shaded garden

but in your house

on every plate and vase

a golden sun

missing you—

the one stalk

of foxglove

I picked

to place beside my bed

purple larkspur

its flowers opening slowly

day after day

I begin

to feel healed

in morning sun

daisies blooming

like mad

& no one to love

the whole summer long

among the snapdragons

children opening the jaws

to peer right in—

how could I have known

you would die so young

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

99

Angela Leuck

bee balm

taking over its corner

of the garden

the soothing pink

such a change from blue

consoling me

bright yellow

African marigolds—

a ray of sunlight

that came and went

monarch butterfly

swooping through the garden—

what colour

what form of loveliness

will you choose today?

through jasmine scent

I walk barefoot

in the garden

under stars

no longer young

early morning wind

before the heat of the day

the fragrance of flowers

comes to me

like a dream I once had

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

100

Angela Leuck

after the argument

she eludes

him

and his allergies

in the garden

painstakingly

weeding

the garden

my sister

the psycho-therapist

cream-coloured petunias

with light lemon centres—

I feel myself growing quiet

content

with much less than I thought

in bloom

nineteen tiger lilies—

at the height

of summer

anything is possible

the full heads

of hydrangeas

slowly turning cream

tonight I’ll wear

a dress of antique lace

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

101

Angela Leuck

when all we need

is a fountain to make

the night perfect

my neighbor comes out

to sprinkle the petunias

still too soon

to know how I feel—

a field

of red poppies

swirling in the wind

dabbing on

lilac scent

the soldier’s wife

on the train

to Petawawa

sitting alone

by the rose of sharon

I wonder

are they still in love

that old couple hand-in-hand

when I feel

the weight

of the world

the tall slender stems

of lobelia

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

102

Angela Leuck

in your fall garden

almost hidden beneath

the leaves

the stone with the word

“remember”

the milkweed pod

on my desk splits open

seeds

with no wind to carry them

dreams behind locked doors

flowers of silence

the words

we didn’t speak:

one white calla lily

one bird of paradise

in this summer

of breakups and

harsh words

my delight

in the lightness of phlox

just a few blocks away

those cool sedate yards

of waving green

while my son rages on

in a world without space

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

103

Angela Leuck

globe thistle

guarding the entrance

to the quiet garden

their prickly petals

outside the locked gate

feeling my life

is too cramped

I look

at a display of penjing—

this universe in a pot

peonies and irises in bloom—

a gray-robed monk

swings his rosary

as he walks

the Way of the Cross

ants

in the quiet garden

even here

I can’t let go

of petty grievances

recalling my mother’s

difficult life

I read to my son

the myth of Psyche:

how chains turned into flowers

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

104

Bob Lucky

I watch you dress

in the light of a dim bulb—

how was I

to know the meaning of love

is not the same in all rooms

the rake

looks good leaning

against the tree—

the leaves pile up

of their own accord

there’s nothing

as far as the eye can see—

I keep walking

to see what else

isn’t there

without warning

I come down on myself

too hard—

that also is a fault

I can’t forgive

don’t ask

who I am

just imagine

you are

who I think you are

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

105

Bob Lucky

for some reason

I press my forehead

to the mirror—

my reflection and I both

contemplate the next move

heat wave

the last bunch of cilantro

wilted—

I drag myself home

to an ungarnished supper

full of myself

I spent the day un-naming

the world—

it made sense

until darkness fell

in a dream I had

sex with a butterfly—

I was happy

when I woke to find I was

not a butterfly dreaming . . .

lunar eclipse

there is an irony

I point out—

the moon we can’t see

on this cloudless night

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

106

Bob Lucky

it’s been years

since you’ve played

the sarangi—

my sympathetic strings

are a little out of sorts

the pain

makes itself at home

in my head—

I would ask you in

but I’m preoccupied

scenic outlook

camera-toting tourists

ask me to move—

it appears I mar

their view of themselves

the ghost of John Cage,

composing marital discord,

chases our deaf cat

up and down the piano

whose lid was left up again

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

107

Terra Martin

Sealed in Amber

a sparkling topaz

the liquid honey hue

so clear-cut

your smile as you

peer into the fire

at a crossroad

the light turns yellow

slowing down

your reckless proposal

I become cautious

the tiger’s eye

a convex oval

in limpid gold tones

you tempt me

to start over

a tiny frond

a fossil in amber

perfectly preserved

the transparency

of love lost

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

108

Terra Martin

Once upon a fern

an ostrich fern

uncoiling upwards

reaching out

you ask me to go

on a date

maiden’s hair

each tender pinnule

evergreen

our first night

together

the tall narrow leaves

of the fuzzy fronds

in cinnamon tones

the embossed invitations

of our engagement

a silver lace fern

with feathery fronds

in layers

the silk and satin

of my wedding dress

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

109

Terra Martin

Eden’s dunes

a long stretch

of newly formed

yellow dunes—

deciding to renew

our friendship

a hill of sand

with a longer slipface

on the windward side

I scatter the seed

of tomorrow’s flower

the fiery sand

struck by lightning

fused to glass

an opaque resurrection

of our stormy past

winnowing

grain after grain from

a distant dune

years slip through

our fingers

along the coastal desert

the U-shaped bay

with outstretched arms

I welcome you back

into my house

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

110

Terra Martin

by the sand sea

against the wind

the domed mounds

of our bodies

in moonlight

the serif crest of

sand rippling to the water

a wave far-reaching

I spill your ashes

into the sea

È

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

111

Michael McClintock

at the bottom

of a trashcan

a wrapped baby

looking up

at the stars

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

112

Tyrone McDonald

I.

having made love

with abandon

now you’re fast asleep

in a place

I can never reach

II.

such is life . . .

enjoying the shade

of the tree

that was once used

to flog my mother

III.

to the woman

glancing at me

while with her lover:

my train stop’s

almost here

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

113

Jo McInerney

gleam

of cold, dead things

beauty

in the warmth

of your skin

clouds

obscure the peak . . .

your friendship

a curious

burden

for two

who talked so much

silence

a strange

fitting end

lone plover

at land’s end . . .

casting back

a stranger’s

gift

I stare

at a childhood photograph . . .

behind my smile

the shadow

of those who loved me

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

114

Jo McInerney

twenty years

since we first met

I claim

never to forget

you not to remember

your voice

sweet in my ear

its soft buzz

gives no sign

of stings to come

my daughter’s

first day at school . . .

so new

and yet I recognise

that musty smell

each day

since your illness

a gift . . .

I trace the river

back to its source

the veins

blue on your wrist . . .

once

your arms

bound our world

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

115

Annette Mineo

this autumn Sunday

cleaning out the shed with you

memories of life

with another man

catch on me like cobwebs

who sent these

six-hundred chattering starlings

to feed in my yard

to satisfy my craving

this dull and frigid winter’s day

all week

this snowglobe snow

and the magic

of you and me falling

in love again

the winter wind blows

cracking every limb

of every tree

as I shop the internet

for a crochet-ring bandeau bikini

just an ordinary fall day

the Sox win the World Series

and on the front steps

into pumpkins

we carve the widest grins

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

116

Annette Mineo

in the nor’easter’s

wild winds

we stand touching

before green hills of ocean

the only two people on earth

at the lighthouse

as waves crash the break wall

and rain begins

only your warm burly fingers

lifting my hood

but these men

they are the real poets

riding their boats

everyday into the dawn

nets empty hearts full

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

117

Amy Nawrocki

The hanging ivy

dangles its long tentacles,

drapes green leaves over

book cases, pauses to turn

a page of Tolkien or Faust.

Prayer flags drape between

the Aspen and Cottonwood;

a knobbed, angled stump

kneels with summer sun, lake dust

painted with lost bird songs.

Putting lips on flesh

of a pretty plum, I bite,

tasting sweet juice slink

down my chin. It’s all I have

as I wait for your salt kiss.

Last day of the week,

humid summer air pools

around low grasses

as the novice sunflower

opens its face to spy me.

Willowy pen marks

spruce a lined page through

the slow ache of summer

breezes and follow the ducks

diving at play.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

118

Amy Nawrocki

When my love spans

the width of this lake

I return to swim

in the foliage of my reflection

before I fall in.

Under the lake glaze

silhouetted ducks shimmy

beneath a tree’s long

shadow; the lake’s glassy rim

takes my photograph.

Ducks quack, wood buckles

inside a tree, evolving

between a dank

cavern of darkness

and a century of sun.

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

119

Stephen A. Peters

memorial service over

the worn sweater

you made for me

thread by thread

still keeps me warm

early morning

at the table

watching her from behind

the old coffee pot

begins to percolate

in the backyard after

saving the world again

the neighborhood kids

take a break

and drink their kool-aid

clouds

in the sky

between us

the silence of

strangers passing by

a grain

among the sand

at least i will die

well known

in obscurity

Modern English Tanka — Winter 2007

120

Stephen A. Peters

after the rain

tonight

the blues singer