M
ODERN
E
NGLISH
T
ANKA
Spring 2008
Volume 2 Number 3
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 - Spring 2008 - Vol. 2, No. 3
Copyright © 2008 by Modern English Tanka Press.
Cover Art, “Windmill Blues,” © 2008 by Karen McClintock.
Acknowledgments of any previous publications are printed at the end of the
journal.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval
systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers
and scholars who may quote brief passages. See our
E
DUCATIONAL
U
SE
N
OTICE
at the end of the journal.
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 – Spring 2008 – Vol. 2, No. 3
Published by M
ODERN
E
NGLISH
T
ANKA
P
RESS
.
Print Edition: ISSN 1932-9083
Digital Edition: ISSN 1930-8132 www.modernenglishtanka.com
C O N T E N T S
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
Volume 2, Number 3.
7
EDITORIALS
9
Capturing the Ineffable
by Denis M. Garrison, editor.
11
Tanka in Western Tradition: Sneaking Tanka from the Canon
by Michael McClintock,
contributing editor.
27
TANKA
29
Hortensia Anderson
31
Aurora Antonovic
34
Megan Arkenberg
35
Pamela A. Babusci
38
Dave Bacharach
41
Maxianne Berger
44
Tom Blessing
46
Shawn Bowman
47
Marjorie Buettner
49
Janet Lynn Davis
51
Margarita Engle
54
Amelia Fielden
58
Denis M. Garrison
60
Victor P. Gendrano
61
Barry George
63
Bernard Gieske
65
Sanford Goldstein
72
Martin Grenfell
73
Michele L. Harvey
77
CW Hawes
83
Elizabeth Howard
85
Roger Jones
87
Kirsty Karkow
88
M. Kei
94
Michael Ketchek
96
Larry Kimmel
99
Joseph V. Kleponis
100
Deborah P Kolodji
102
Jean LeBlanc
104
Angela Leuck
107
Bob Lucky
111
Cynthia Ludlow
112
Terra Martin
116
Francis Masat
118
Michael McClintock
124
Jo McInerney
128
Annette Mineo
130
Mary E. Moore
131
Marilyn Murphy
132
Gautam Nadkarni
136
Amy Nawrocki
138
Peter Newton
142
Stephen A. Peters
145
Jack Prewitt
149
Patricia Prime
155
Kala Ramesh
156
Alexis Rotella
159
Adelaide B. Shaw
161
Trish Shields
162
Billy Simms
163
Guy Simser
164
Paul Smith
169
André Surridge
171
Barbara A. Taylor
173
A.Thiagarajan
174
Carolyn Thomas
176
Chuck Tripi
178
Ella Wagemakers
179
Linda Jeannette Ward
182
N. C. Whitehead
183
Liam Wilkinson
185
Fran Witham
187
Jeffrey Woodward
193
ESSAYS & ARTICLES
195
Tanka Year in Review: 2007,
compiled by the editors.
199
The Poet’s Cabin
by Marjorie Buettner. Photographs by Brea Buettner with
poetry by Marjorie Buettner.
208
The Tanka Labyrinth
by M. Kei.
229
BOOK NOTES & REVIEWS
231
Haiku, Triku, Tanka and More: Fifty Years of Japan Inspired Fixed Form Verse
by
Harold Wright. Note by the editor.
232
Ouch! Senryu that Bite
by Alexis Rotella. Note by Liam Wilkinson.
233
Recent Titles from Modern English Tanka Press
, by the editor.
234
Straggling into Winter: a tanka journal
by Kathy Kituai. A review by the editor.
236
Just Passing Through: Tanka, Haiku, Haibun
by Jean LeBlanc. A review by the
editor.
238
shorelines: haiku, haibun, and tanka
by Kirsty Karkow. A review by M. Kei.
242
Contributors.
248
Acknowledgements.
249
Tanka Venues, with abbreviations.
253
Educational Use Notice.
Cover art , “Windmill Blues,” by Karen McClintock.
E D I T O R I A L S
9
Capturing the Ineffable
Denis M. Garrison
In his article, “The Labyrinth of Tanka,” included in this issue of
Modern English Tanka
,
M. Kei discusses mystery and depth (
yügen
, the illusive mood, dreaming room,
multivalency, etc.) as a definitive characteristic of tanka. In my editorial, “Dreaming
Room,” in
MET
Spring 2007, I dealt with this aspect of tanka particularly with respect
to tanka’s uncanny capacity for speaking the unspeakable, capturing the ineffable, by the
most careful
rhetoric of omission
.* That is, knowing what not to say.
There are, of course, more facets to tanka mystery than this one, as Kei explains very
well in his article. However, it is this one which especially fascinates me with its potential
and its power. Having spent decades in a government post in which the finest nuances
of connotation were taken into account for even the most mundane communications (in
popular parlance, “spin”), I developed antennae sensitive to the words missing in a
particular piece. Even in the prosaic world of politics, business, and other aspects of
public life, much can be learned from careful attention to what is not said. It is all the
more true in poetry.
For someone not yet accustomed to reading with an eye to what is missing, it may seem
like foolishness. After all, one can argue that “everything that is not included is missing”
which would suggest the irrelevance of what is not there. The argument against that
position is long, complicated, and boring, so it is fortunate that it is also unnecessary.
The fact is, well-written tanka in modern English are notable for accessibility; few tanka
writers seem to indulge in the obscurantism so popular amongst too many other poets.
More to the point, even tanka with plenty of dreaming room in them are yet quite
accessible. That is, readers do not need to be trained to read tanka as, arguably, they must
be trained to read haiku properly. The rhetoric of omission in the hands of a master
produces tanka that wield their mysterious effects whether or not the reader is
conscientiously looking for them.
How does it work? Learning that takes years of reading and study and practice in writing
tanka. However, the neophyte can learn metaphorically about the rhetoric of omission
by studying how optical illusions work; stage and street magic, etc. At the most general:
your mind develops expectations and accumulates experiences; from these resources,
your mind fills in the missing pieces, sometimes leading you astray. In poetry, when the
poet builds dreaming room into a poem, your mind fills it in, in your own, unique
personal way. This is what is referred to by phrases like “co-creating the poem” and
“completing the poem.”
Why should you care? What difference does it make that poems can be written with this
“dreaming room?” This technique equips a poet to communicate to a broader audience,
even to readers who do not share much of the poet’s personal experience, environment,
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
10
values, etc., because the verse is more universal in appeal by virtue of having less
narrowing details that limit its possibilities. Let me make that a little more concrete. In
my region, there is a special place called “Soldiers Delight.” It is 1900 acres of serpentine
barren with many rare types of minerals, fauna, and flora. In short, it is very unique. A
short poem full of details specific to Soldiers Delight would have very little room for
distant readers to identify with the poem. It would, perhaps, be very interesting for its
uniqueness, but it would hardly engage a reader. The same pattern works at a much
subtler level, when even certain widely-recognized details are omitted so that the reader
can have more room for personal interpretation and, thereby, identification and
engagement. That is, of course, the kind of response from readers that is desirable. After
all, there is no more deadly response to a poem than “So what?”
In selecting three tanka from this issue to feature on its back cover, I chose tanka that
exemplify the careful use of the rhetoric of omission. Each of these has a surface
plainness that dissolves as the reader fills in the dreaming room with her or his own
experience and senses that epiphanic moment of recognition that elicits an emotional
response. Two, Margarita Engle’s and Francis Masat’s, remind me of haiku by Issa by
their empathy with creatures. The third, Sanford Goldstein’s, is human to the core and
deeply touching. Any of these three could have included more specific details, about the
circumstances, their intentions, etc., but each poet knew what to say and what not to say.
first frost
the slow lizard
moves indoors
a silent companion
all morning
~ Margarita Engle
only a needle
for my daughter’s long socks
and a piece of white thread,
at times the entire world
reduced to this
after a storm
~ Sanford Goldstein
the bloody heart
of a fallen cedar—
safe behind my shutters
a lone moth
~ Francis Masat
—
Denis M. Garrison, editor
March 2008
* Note that the phrase “rhetoric of omission” is taken from the Introduction to
Modern Japanese Tanka
by Makoto Ueda, Editor. (Columbia University Press, 1996.)
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
11
Tanka in Western Tradition:
Sneaking Tanka from the Canon
Michael McClintock
Are you persuaded that tanka is new to English? Are the aesthetic and lyrical considera-
tions of contemporary English-language tanka remote from historical practice in the
West, or in some sense contrary to Western understanding of what poetry is and how
it best communicates? Or are those propositions nonsense?
Modern English tanka is not entirely without roots in its native literature. With surprising
frequency, one can find the essence of tanka in the lines and longer poems of the
masters. What we may call
tanka artifacts
are strewn like potsherds up, down, and
throughout the many layers and sediments that together form the bedrock of the English
and American literary canon in poetry.
The poems in the following anthology are pulled from contiguous phrases within longer
poems—poems that were not necessarily made better, or more poetic, or more
worthwhile, because they were longer. In case after case, in fact, the part of the poem I
have isolated out and labeled a “tanka artifact” is often the chief part having any real
poetic value at all. I am astonished that so many of these gleanings were found, and
excised, from what is the central point of gravity and poetic space in the original
poem—that part, in fact, for which the poem is most admired and known. What has
been dropped are the elements of rhetorical locution, empty conceit, argument, or
intellectual extrapolation and caprice, that clutter the original. (1)
What you see as tanka, below, is what is there in the originals. To me, it looks like tanka,
reads like tanka and is, in fact, essentially tanka. And all of it was written before tanka (or
waka
) as a literature of Japan was known or studied as such in the West.
Put a knife
to thy throat
if thou be
a man given
to appetite.
Old Testament,
Proverbs xxiii.2
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
12
Sap checked
with frost, and lusty leaves
quite gone,
Beauty o’er-snowed and
bareness every where
William Shakespeare
from Sonnet 5
If I could write
the beauty of your eyes,
and in fresh numbers
number all your graces, the age to come
would say ‘This poet lies’
William Shakespeare
from Sonnet 17
old Time:
despite thy wrong,
my love
shall in my verse
ever live young
William Shakespeare
from Sonnet 19
believe me,
my love is as fair as any
mother’s child,
though not so bright as those
gold candles fixed in heaven’s air
William Shakespeare
from Sonnet 21
In me
thou seest the twilight
of such day
as after sunset
fadeth in the west
William Shakespeare (2)
from Sonnet 73
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
13
Batter my heart,
three-personed God:
for you as yet but knock,
breathe, shine,
and seek to mend.
John Donne
from “Batter my heart, three-personed God”
Let thy west wind
sleep on the lake;
speak silence
with thy glimmering eyes,
and wash the dusk with silver
William Blake
from “To the Evening Star”
Soon, full soon,
dost thou withdraw;
then the wolf ranges wide,
and the lion glares
thro’ the dun forest
William Blake
from “To the Evening Star”
as they pass—
snatch the retrieveless
sunbeam as it flies,
nor lose one sand
of life’s revolving glass
John Quincy Adams
from “To the Sun-Dial”
the weak winds,
wafted from the main,
through each rent arch,
like spirits that complain,
come hollow to my ear
William Lisle Bowles
from “Netley Abbey”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
14
This world
has angels
all too few,
and Heaven
is overflowing.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
from “To a Young Lady”
Dear God!
the very houses
seem asleep:
And all that mighty heart
is lying still!
William Wordsworth
from “Composed upon Westminster Bridge”
With ships
the sea was sprinkled
far and nigh,
like stars in heaven,
and joyously it showed
William Wordsworth
from “With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh”
This ship
was naught to me,
nor I to her,
yet I pursued her
with a lover’s look
William Wordsworth
from “With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh”
a beauteous evening,
calm and free,
the holy time
is quiet as a Nun
breathless with adoration
William Wordsworth
from “Composed Upon the Beach Near Calais, August, 1802”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
15
the broad sun
is sinking down
in its tranquility;
the gentleness of heaven
broods o’er the Sea
William Wordsworth
from “Composed Upon the Beach Near Calais, August, 1802”
Listen!
the mighty Being
is awake,
and doth with his eternal motion
make a sound like thunder
William Wordsworth
from “Composed Upon the Beach Near Calais, August,
1802”
Round the decay
of that colossal wreck,
boundless and bare
the lone and level sands
stretch far away
Percy Bysshe Shelley
from “Ozymandias”
Where Frost and Heat
in strange embraces blend
on Atlas,
fields of moist snow
half depend.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
from “To the Nile”
Save me
from curious conscience,
that still lords
its strength in darkness,
burrowing like a mole
John Keats
from “To Sleep”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
16
Pillowed
upon my fair love’s
ripening breast,
to feel for ever its
soft fall and swell
John Keats
from “Sonnet Written on a Blank
Page in Shakespeare’s Poems”
When we were idlers
with the loitering rills,
the need of human love
we little noted:
our love was nature
John Keats
from “To a Friend”
Even bees,
the little almsmen
of spring bowers,
know there is richest juice
in poisoned flowers.
John Keats
from “Isabella”, xiii.
now the streams
may sing
for others’ pleasure,
the hills sleep on
in their eternity
John Keats
from “To a Friend”
I see them,—
crowd on crowd
they walk the earth,
dry leafless trees
no autumn wind laid bare
Jones Very
from “The Dead”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
17
Their hearts
the living God
have ceased to know
who gives the spring-time
to the expectant year
Jones Very
from “The Dead”
Faintly as tolls
the evening chime,
our voices
keep tune and our oars
keep time.
Thomas Moore
from “A Canadian Boat-Song”
the void
weighs on us,
and then we wake,
and hear the fruitful stream
lapsing along twixt villages
Leigh Hunt
from “The Nile”
Heaped in the hollows
of the grove, the autumn leaves
lie dead;
they rustle to the eddying gust,
and to the rabbit’s tread
William Cullen Bryant
from “Death of the Flowers”
I cannot choose
but think upon the time
when our two lives
grew like two buds
that kiss
George Eliot
from “Brother and Sister [1]”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
18
when he talked to me
of snakes and birds,
and which God loved the best,
I thought his knowledge marked
the boundary where men grew blind
George Eliot
from “Brother and Sister [1]”
Long years have left
their writing on my brow,
but yet the freshness
and the dew-fed beam
of those young mornings
George Eliot
from “Brother and Sister [2]”
The sea
waits ages in its bed,
‘til some one wave
out of multitude aspires,
extends the empire of the whole.
Robert Browning
from “Paracelsus”, Sc.3.
Autumn wins you
best by this
its mute appeal
to sympathy
for its decay.
Robert Browning
from “Paracelsus”, Sc.1.
A robe of sackcloth
next the smooth, white skin.
Such, poet,
is your bride,
the Muse!
Matthew Arnold
from “Austerity of Poetry”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
19
the fierce sun overhead
smote on the squalid streets
of Bethnal Green,
and the pale weaver
through his windows
Matthew Arnold
from “East London”
clouds
and cloudy shadows
wander free,
that never spoke,
over the idle ground
Thomas Hood
from “Silence”
from the east
the wind blows
sharp with rain,
that just now drove
its wild ranks down the street
Lizette Woodworth Reese
from “April in Town”
A troop of laborers
comes slowly by;
one bears a daffodil,
and seems to bear a new-lit candle
through the fading light.
Lizette Woodworth Reese
from “April in Town”
Left hand,
off land, I hear
the lark ascend,
his rash-fresh re-winged
new skeined score
Gerard Manley Hopkins
from “The Sea and the Skylark”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
20
Comforter,
where, where
is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us,
where is your relief?
Gerard Manley Hopkins
from“No Worst”
All passes;
Art alone enduring
stays to us:
The Bust outlasts the throne.
The Coin, Tiberius.
Austin Dobson
from “Ars Victrix”
Today,
I have been happy.
All the day
I held the memory
of you
Rupert Brooke
from “One Day”
Ah, the delirious weeks
of honeymoon!
Soon they returned, and,
after strange adventures,
settled at Balham
Rupert Brooke
from “Sonnet Reversed”
a migrant bird
in passing sung,
and the girl
closed her window
not to hear.
Trumbull Stickney
from “Near Helikon”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
21
Words out of lips
that were no more to speak—
words of the past
that shook the old man’s cheek
like dead, remembered footsteps
Edwin Arlington Robinson
from “The Pity of the Leaves”
Let the man go:
let the dead flesh
be dead,
and let the worms
be its biographers.
Edwin Arlington Robinson
from “Verlaine”
Your voice watered
the sand dune
of my chest
inside the wondrous
phone booth made of wood.
Federico Garcia Lorca
trans. Willis Barnstone
from “The Poet Talks on the Phone with His Love”
what could be
more beautiful than these
heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions
to the roaring slaughter
E. E. Cummings
from “next to of course god
america i”
* * *
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
22
Do the above poems read like tanka? I think they do.
Are
they tanka? Does it matter?
All of the poems from which I have extracted (
pilfered
, if you prefer) my examples in the
above anthology should, of course, be read, enjoyed, and studied in their entirety, as
originally written. We owe that to the poets who wrote them, and in respect to the way
they wrote them we may then proceed to understand their intended meaning and the
cultures out of which they were drawn. That being said, familiarity with the original texts
will help us to better understand the enormous gulf of differences that underlies the art
of poetry, historically, in the East and West.
At the same time, in the above examples of “tanka”, as extracted from a few of the
canonical poems of English and American literature, there is clearly an overlapping of
sense and sensibilities, of meaning and substance and the uses of language: an agreement
in aesthetics, subject matter, and lyrical content that can yield to us a surer footing and
confidence in our study, enjoyment, and use of contemporary tanka to make sense of
our world, our experience and knowledge of it, and in the way we make use of the
special voice and vision that tanka affords.
We become conscious that something more than Eastern and Western values are melded
here. Boundaries seem to be erased in an unencumbered kind of language that—to our
surprise—has perhaps always been there, speaking to us earnestly within all the
literatures of the world, through recorded history, as men and women have written it.
The excesses of Western intellectualism are peeled away, as are also the excessive and
stifling formalities, politics, and rituals of Eastern practice, wherever they may exist, then
as now. Pure water comes from muddy pools.
In offering these passages, I invite you to consider their value as poetry. If indeed they
have value and merit as poetry, consider then the implications. Just conceivably, we may
re-examine our literature and study it from a new and fresh perspective. An avenue of
study opens, I think, which can 1) de-mystify the ingredients and clarify the essential
roots and sources of modern tanka expressionism and, 2) justify a wider discourse about
tanka by removing it from its culture-specific, Japanese origins, and enhance our
understanding of the way tanka principles can and do work as poetry generally in a way
that is fundamental within all or most poetry or poetic expression, whatever the language
or culture involved.
The sort of literary archeology presented here suggests that basic tanka composition and
“poetics” may be indigenous—in their raw, unleavened, elemental form—to many,
possibly most, poetic traditions and literatures. In these examples, at least so far as
English and American poetry seem to show, tanka expressionism is universal, widely and
variously styled, resilient, and perennial: It has, does, and continues to exist everywhere,
is universally identifiable by its syntax, diction, use of images and personal, lyrical
expression, and may at the same time express and reflect the values, pre-occupations,
emotional and intellectual life unique to the age in which it is written. Each of these
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
23
tanka artifacts reflects, also, those characteristics most closely associated with the given
poet—those uses of language and habits of thought that make their work distinct,
memorable, and widely prized.
—Michael McClintock, contributing editor
March 2008
Notes:
1. The following exemplifies a typical extraction of what I term a “tanka artifact”, from
“The Windhover” by Gerard Manley Hopkins:
. . .and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
5
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind.
My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Classical waka or tanka principles of composition, when applied to the underlined text,
yield this result:
My heart
in hiding stirred
for a bird, —
the achieve of,
the mastery of the thing!
Not a word has been lost or added; the order of words is intact. The only tampering has
been with the line breaks and, of course, the complete elimination of the rest of the
poem!
Frequently, text having phrasing, imagery and content very close to contemporary
English tanka appears consecutively, or in multiple instances, within a given poem, as in
these examples below. I have underlined the passages of interest.
“To the Evening Star” by William Blake:
Thou fair hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light,
Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
24
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the
Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full, soon,
Dost thou withdraw; Then the wolf ranges wide,
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest.
The fleece of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.
This text, I find, yields at least two fine tanka:
Let thy west wind
sleep on the lake;
speak silence
with thy glimmering eyes,
and wash the dusk with silver.
Soon, full soon,
dost thou withdraw;
then the wolf ranges wide,
and the lion glares
thro' the dun forest.
“Composed Upon the Beach Near Calais, August, 1802” by William Wordsworth:
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—
everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought,
10
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
25
a beauteous evening,
calm and free,
the holy time
is quiet as a Nun
breathless with adoration
the broad sun
is sinking down
in its tranquility:
the gentleness of heaven
broods o'er the sea
Listen!
the mighty Being
is awake,
and doth with his eternal motion
make a sound like thunder
In the majority of cases, however, much more digging was needed; many poems did not
yield a single, even simple “start.” While some poets were rich with tanka, others were
dust-poor.
2. For more “tanka” by Shakespeare, see “The Tanka Café: Summer” by Michael
McClintock, in
Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal
, June 2007.
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
T A N K A
29
Hortensia Anderson
have i been dozing?
the last flame has died
and the room is chill—
one touch of the andiron,
the ash log loses its shape
across the pond
a half-moon bridge
makes a circle;
how it wavers through tears
on the verge of spilling
barely,
you touch the surface
of the lake—
floating like moonlight
across the darkness
green twilight—
blooming by the riverbank
lazily . . .
purple-stemmed angelica
cast lacy, silken shadows
faint breeze
through plum blossoms—
sunlight on my face;
as my breath begins to fade
perfumed shadows cover me
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
30
Hortensia Anderson
the monk
seeks his true self—
reflected
on the surface of the pond,
he finds a common weed
I had lost you—
outside some unknown dream
I kept waiting;
it was the graveyard gates
that finally let me in
the wind is so blue
through the cherry blossoms—
such a great heron
has soared and spread his wings
enveloping the sky
In Memory of John Crook
crescent moon—
I stroke the curve of her back
until she dreams;
then capture her in black ink
on a square of white paper
shoots of grass
poke through cracked cement—
winter left so soon;
the warm sun ushers in
a green and early spring.
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
31
Aurora Antonovic
fresh snow
untouched unmarred
how I wish
to start my life
over again
I step
into the bath
gleaming white
scented with bleach
his equivalent of roses
monasteries
carved into mountains
hidden
from those
who hate God
he sends me
pink pyjamas covered
with snowflakes
so I can have winter
anytime I like
glad of his return
after this last trip
I give his hot chocolate
an extra squirt of
whipped cream
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
32
Aurora Antonovic
at the train station
we share our first
kiss
look, the old couple whispers
they’re in love
waves crash
on shore, only to pull back
again—
as though I need to explain
why I love you
trees heavy
with red and green
apples—
in a dream, I tell my dead sister
about the promotion
bathtime
the poems I write
bleed—
no matter, they were
only about you
in hospital sheets
tangled white and frail
my roommate
stares back at me
with my own mortality
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
33
Aurora Antonovic
parkside
he wants to analyze our relationship
I’d rather discuss
the blues of the skies
the motion of the river
I sell my house
give away paintings
pack clothes
but what I really want
to be rid of is you
age eight
I watched them take my father
by ambulance
seventeen years later
here I am waiting, waiting
delirious
with fever
I shiver and shake
my long-dead mother’s hand
reaching for my forehead
all these years later
missing my father
until it hurts
the sound of the wind rustling
in the Russian poplars
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
34
Megan Arkenberg
all week
I’ve given sunlight and water
to this wilted rose—
so how can I mock him
for loving you still?
a broken nail
as I rip open
your latest letter
. . . little by little
you chip away at me
rereading the poems
I wrote when you loved me
so full of ice—
always, some part of me knew
it would end in spring
dog-eared pages
and notes in the margins—
what traces
have other hands left
on your love for me?
all night
the snap of branches
in late winter wind
I remember how deftly
he braided my hair
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
35
Pamela A. Babusci
lighter than
falling petals
on a windy day
i travel down
his spine
buying
lucky bamboo—
the shape
of her
sagging breasts
white crow . . .
i awaken
from the
new year’s dream
breathless
blue funk
of a cerulean woman—
tonight she will float
down a river
of imaginary lovers
he’s perfect
my renaissance man—
then he cries
too loud
at the chick-flick
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
36
Pamela A. Babusci
flamingo colored
sunglasses
on the diva
pool side
at high-noon
growing up
italian
& catholic . . .
so much guilt
no wonder i am short
my mother mails me
another
st. jude prayer card
& tells me
not to lose hope
bringing a pot of coffee
& cigarettes
to my mother’s grave—
we have never spoken
so honestly
i let go
of pain, tears
& being a fool . . .
tonight, white irises
comfort me
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
37
Pamela A. Babusci
i lie in perfect
stillness
on this imperfect day—
learning to live
one breath at a time
flightless butterfly
in her new year’s dream—
ex-lover
covered
in white powder
pouring perfume
into my lover’s hair . . .
i fell into the
abyss of love
& swallowed it whole
dew dripping
from peonies . . .
as his kisses
fall off my thighs
i am held hostage
i am veiled
in mystery
shielded from pain . . .
if you touch me
be certain you want to
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
38
Dave Bacharach
does she remember
how she used to run?
my old mare
gazes out at snow ghosts
that dance across the field
this guy
waxy faced in the coffin,
I met him once—
lately I show up
at everyone’s funeral
leave me
in a snowy field
where my ribs
may be a perch
for blackbirds
up in smoke
along with egg cartons
balance sheets
and tissue clumps—
the poems I wrote to her
Claire de Lune
on a player piano
in this dive—
the bartender smirks
at my drunken tears
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
39
Dave Bacharach
naked
as these hillside trees
I let the wind
ravish me
until I, too, am wood
the tollbooth guy
wishes me happy
holidays
thousands of cars
before me, thousands after
the dog
scrapes her paw across
my poems . . .
a brown smudge
just where it should be
at the break table
a walking stick
presents itself—
tough factory hands
gentled by amazement
zombies
in the movie die
so easily
my demons
are more durable
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
40
Dave Bacharach
a buried pipe
shunts the farmer’s field
into a ditch
how I envy
such easy drainage
the owl’s question
oscillates in moonlight
through my window
a whole life behind me
and still I can’t answer
a yellow burst
of sunflowers, the swirl
of spiraled stars . . .
I’ve begun to understand
slash-eared martyrdom
still there
two geese beneath a gaunt
cherry tree
one stayed behind for faith
the other stayed for love
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
41
Maxianne Berger
dokugin starting in summer
downtown blues concert
a mournful trumpet’s muted
done-me-wrong’s
blowing over cobblestones
dandelions gone to seed
calèche driver
staccato-tongued tour guide
clack clickety click
even my knitting needles
don’t move as quickly
this wool sweater
warm enough for a long walk
look: a harvest moon
your hand becomes my glove
leaves underfoot crackle
our chitter chatter
silenced in a goodbye kiss
fall’s cooler air
yet neighbourhood chipmunks
scurry about their business
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
42
Maxianne Berger
church next door
after the wedding - flower girls
play tag
happiness is fleeting yet
the chase seems worthwhile
who knows if we try
someday we might catch something
beyond snowflakes
though on a moonless night
the ice seems more slippery
a tumbler
and just a shot of whiskey
no loneliness here
lots of videos to watch
and after that there are dreams
that pillow you hug
do you ever imagine
it’s me?
distant lover in thoughts too
the phone’s cradled receiver
sometimes I forget
your voice - there is only me
talking to myself
while outside my window
robins - an invitation?
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
43
Maxianne Berger
the postman rings
two stamps on the envelope
blue lilacs
spring fragrances - sweet even
without you - but sweeter with
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
44
Tom Blessing
he brushes
her thin white hair
with soft strokes
in his wallet
a lock of red
the clear moon
is reflected in the river
he stands quietly
cigarette smoke and grief
linger about his face
along the shore
the moon shares the lake
with fallen maples
a raven watches from a branch
as the fisherman casts his line
after the shooting
i took out your old photo
and painted a portrait
of the happiness
you never knew
too tired
to cook for one
i open a beer
eat cold rice
and velveeta
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
45
Tom Blessing
here is the fate
of our brute love in the
chamber of the dead
the candle will not light
the sea will not part
Two Old Friends
you brought chicken
i brought venison
the old bottle is empty
you bring out another
laughing
looking at the painting
i wonder who are these men
with plates behind their heads
saints, it seems
how strange
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
46
Shawn Bowman
we shield our daughter
from the sales scheme
on channel thirteen
as if manipulation
were not natural
now that she crawls
I wear my socks out across the carpet
so much so
that when I kiss you
it shocks me
years of floorboard
between the wall and the chair
transformed into
one of the little passages
that children make
search by call number—
the book gave me new ideas
thanks to fourteen characters
in between
two periods
august
along my legs,
on your face in my lap,
acting innocent, the fan blows
warm air
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
47
Marjorie Buettner
shadows darken
rain turning sleet turning snow
this midnight hour
then time reckons me alone
and takes what I cannot keep
these words
that have a life of their own
enter me
the song of a wild beast
howling love at the night sky
they say mermaids
can never love
but only desire
so, too, I fear this wanting
a thief of time I have become
this breath of wind
brushes against my body
before sleep
I close my eyes to pretend
the play of your touch on skin
when I told you
to go I never thought
that you would
this hole inside my heart
is a dark, dark matter
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
48
Marjorie Buettner
I did not talk
to her enough I think
only too late—
long shadows over snow
from a dying star
a leveling fog
makes ghosts of us all
this midnight drive home
and like Orpheus searching
would you go back for me, too?
deep into the night
the freight train whistle
enters my dream
I travel out of my life
and into your arms
this poetry writing
damns me in your eyes
but saves me, too
I hide poems under pillows
I converse with the dead
winter wind
the snow covers over
a frozen land
I sit here with a cold heart
wondering what went wrong
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
49
Janet Lynn Davis
Ice-cold smoothies
Alone
with the other patients
in this cold room,
sipping on barium shakes
until I’m quite numb
you have good veins. . .
but ones that roll
, I insist,
as he thrusts
the IV into a patch
of innocent skin
relaxed at last
while waiting to be scanned. . .
newspaper spread out,
I read about
other people’s problems
it’s not the whirs
from the spinning ring
that I mind,
but this look inside me
throws me for a loop
breathe in,
breathe out, now hold!
I obey
a robotlike voice
from out of nowhere
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
50
Janet Lynn Davis
super-rays
from this high-tech machine
have filled me—
as I emerge to leave
I should be glowing
some kindness here,
but still I’m just a name
on just another
theme park ride
I could have done without
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
51
Margarita Engle
rare book room
the librarian
and I
do not trust each other
with these treasures
leading a horse
I pause while he reaches
for treetops
between mulberry leaves
my view of sky
above the bridge
a ribbon of fog
and below
a ribbon
of river
first frost
the slow lizard
moves indoors
a silent companion
all morning
beneath
a V of wild geese
the lone raven
on a fencepost
watching traffic
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
52
Margarita Engle
viewed
through the smoke and ash
of a distant
forest fire
the red dragon sunrise
drought year
the ghostly farmhouse
lies dormant
within its cocoon
of shade trees
exhausted
I choose the slow road
just for a glimpse
of the palomino in his pasture
restfully grazing
Dreamscape a tanka string
birds
in bamboo cages
wait
while horsemen
leap from cliffs
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
53
Margarita Engle
in a room
where animals
know
how to speak
only I am silent
lucid dream
the wildfire is beyond
my control
so I conjure monsoon clouds
on the smoky horizon
in the dream
my grandmother
is alive
and the voice I cannot hear
is my own
school
on a stormy hilltop
I climb
toward lightning
and learning
moon
meteor shower
sun
and now
I am awake
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
54
Amelia Fielden
North-Western Summer 2007
Portland
rain lingers
in the city streets,
the green hill
far away is lit with sun—
parable of Portland
the moon beams
down on the avenue—
your complaints
and that air-conditioner,
equally irritating
Haiku event
colourless
at Portland
against sunstruck windows
Botanic Gardens
roses in bud
assert their scents
at a writers’ workshop
all day long
long-stemmed yellow rosebuds
are s-lowly
opening to the low hum
of poets’ voices
Columbia River
above our boat
Gorge cruise
a swallow frolicking
dives and soars—
how will I, wingless
express this happiness
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
55
Amelia Fielden
near the dam at
running wild
Columbia River
on banks and hillsides,
sweet-peas
the tamest of flowers
in my childhood’s garden
Seattle
growing dreams
for winds of the future,
a little girl
sleeps with outstretched arms
in her princess bed
some see a lawn
straggly with dandelions,
I see bushes
of lavender floating
fragrance into a home
Woodlands’ Zoo
summer zoo:
in the Butterfly House
orange leaves
swirling downwards
fluttering upwards
pacing pacing
a jaguar separated
by glass panes
from the gawping crowd—
is that a one-way window
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
56
Amelia Fielden
Japanese tanka
the pupil
workshop
widowed for thirty years
in Seattle
asks the master
if she may write love lyrics
from her imagination
‘La Vie en Rose’
Edith Piaf,
movie
how sad her life on film—
“I miss you
most of all, my darling,
when autumn leaves start to fall”
remembering
from high school French class
that song
“the violins of autumn
afflict my heart”
Green Lake circuit
a vast field
of waterlilies extends
across Green Lake—
in my youth doing
everything to extremes
she sits there
smoking her cigarette,
on a bench
engraved ‘for the beauty
of the environment’
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
57
Amelia Fielden
raspberries
my favourite fruit,
usually—
is today’s sourness
from the earth, or my mood
I produce a book
from my lunch bag—
unimpressed,
the duck family deserts me
for a spread of picnickers
Ashworth Avenue
late in life
North
a fresh love affair—
this small boy
calls “good morning, Grandma”
and my world is renewed
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
58
Denis M. Garrison
putting my dog
to sleep . . .
his trusting eyes—
this necessity
of love
drinking hot java
to clear that old boozy fog
I still tightly grip
my chipped “world’s greatest dad” mug,
even though it burns . . . it burns
trying to sleep
a clean and sober night
red sirens scream
the walls will soon fall in
reality is coming
from the bedroom
a baritone moan
and her voice—
wondering who came to visit
I carefully load my gun
up on the fifth floor
I stamp official requests,
half
Yes
, half
No
. . .
a plow-team of unicorns
transfigures Main Street
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
59
Denis M. Garrison
sleeping poets
each time eyelids flicker
a poem is born
hidden in darkness
bright galaxies bloom
lush summer meadow
emeralds in the sun
sparkle half so green—
when you laugh with the children
I’m lost in your shining eyes
it is time for me
to head off to the fantail
for stogies and rum
the sea-breeze blowing through me . . .
Mother Sea counting my time
sinuous beauty
rising off lettered pages
my tanka dragon
riding on your feathered back
I’m carried to wonder-lands
far side of the peak
we pause to pray
rocking on the waves
voices of our ancestors
the night wind rising
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
60
Victor P. Gendrano
almost dawn
she senses his coming
tiptoeing to their room
a strange perfume
ushers him in
I hurry up
to catch her plodding steps
to the wharf
where swirling seagulls
silence our goodbyes
he senses the ticking
of the wall clock
in another motel
he tries to assuage
a lonely heart
spring time
a rainbow forms
in the sprinkler
he waters the lawn
from his wheelchair
strains of ukulele
fill the sultry night
she fingers the dried lei
and hugs the memories
he left behind
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
61
Barry George
why on this
cold-blossom night
do I who seldom quarterbacked
dream only of pass
after pass?
if anything
a little extra starch
is in his collar—
the retired partner
visiting the firm
he’s the first one
to look up
if I am watching him—
my student
just released from jail
shooting jump shots
while the skyscrapers
dream
the playground
this spring afternoon
light
from a candle
my cat’s eyes today
as he stared from his cage
at the vet’s
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
62
Barry George
my aunt with Alzheimer’s
is like a composer
saying
every few lines
“something, something”
his nuanced history
of the CIA
convinces me—
gentlemen don’t read
each other’s mail
benched
the star forward
his sweat
and the clock ticking
down
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
63
Bernard Gieske
I knew her
in her saying yes
now
I know her
even less
I hear
the tick and then
the tock
and wonder what
the clock does in between
rainy day
rummaging in the attic
things forsaken
lingering murmuring memories
all the children gone
upending the canoe
homeless
a spider cringes in retreat
she gently scoops it up
and sets it on a stone
angry words
flying
like sharp arrows
silence
remembering everything
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
64
Bernard Gieske
unchained
loving these words
I hunger for your touch
I knew not then
how sweet would be your touch
listen to winter
all loneliness and chill
don’t wait
whispering snow
gently touch your blanket here
little bird
singing
its heart
larger than the world
can ever know
washed ashore
from the ocean deep
seashell dreams
echo in my ear
pleasures & treasures
her tongue
tracing edges of desire
against my palm
flicking a sensual prayer
along my fingers
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
65
Sanford Goldstein
tanka moments: October 1981
as if the world is
tonight’s special chocolate
candy bar,
I watch with my daughter
her favorite Japanese songfest
every day
another colleague’s manuscript
to proofread—
I’m running out of
fiery red ink!
my book
of tanka ready
to send off,
something sabi-sad
sealing the envelope
brandied cherries—
the gift he hands me
bowing at the door—
for teaching him, he tells me,
Shakespeare’s sonnets
the memory
of a long ago twosome
still moving,
molecular-memories
bouncing off
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
66
Sanford Goldstein
I have leaned
against the tanka walls
of a hundred years—
I want to hammer home
a few of my own
at the door
boxes of thank-you cakes
or hands with bills
and sometimes salesmen
offering counterpanes
thinking
of my closeted
umbrella
now that this rain
falls on my battered hat
a Kenny Rogers
love song heard last night
and it remains
in my walk, in my class,
and in this coffee cup
that black crow
held its sand-covered ground
when I clapped—
only sparrows scattered
in flock formation
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
67
Sanford Goldstein
these oriental days
I have settled into a world
of order—
oh, my tanka muse,
blister me rough!
decades-old pine trees
bent by this Sea of Japan
wind,
and I bend my body too
on my early morning walk
an after-class
nap in my university
office,
and all my cares fade
under this brown blanket
they tell me
to marry,
marry,
as if these nine years of grief
can be erased
thick worm
in the gripping beak
of that black crow—
it too, I feel,
delays the pleasure
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
68
Sanford Goldstein
no political tanka
have I, precious Mokichi,
and I learn just today
how you suffered
in the post-war finger-pointing
tonight I want
a cab-driver honesty
in my poems,
scraping away phony
innuendo and sophistry
I pour
a tablespoon of pure honey
for my kid’s sore throat—
oh precious mother, where’s
yesterday’s chicken soup?
I walk
with my thoughts
on Mokichi
and the girl
he had to give up
October chill
and the loneliness
gathers
even in these socks
put on at six a.m.
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
69
Sanford Goldstein
that dead frog
along my seaside
morning walk,
was it back-sprawled
in a final prayer of thanks
these two years
in my Japanese room,
only one bed laid out
each and every
night
where was it
the two of us newcomers,
the dead one and me,
ate that fifty-yen chicken rice
twenty-eight years ago?
back and forth
on crowded buses
these end-of-fall days
as if the strap I hold to
is all there is
I exchange
small blue sakecups
with an old student
and we go through
two-decade memories
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
70
Sanford Goldstein
newspaper runners
and hurrying milkmen
in my 6 a.m. world—
I walk sea-less
along this rain-drenched street
Mokichi,
washing your dentures
in public—
you always knew
what this tanka world demands
already I feel like
uncle-left-by-the-fire,
my kid
wrapping the brown blanket
around my shoulders
strange
seeing on the bus
this late-fall day,
toes sticking out of
straw sandals
just these chopsticks
deep into a bowl
of hot noodles—
and the end of October
has come
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
71
Sanford Goldstein
only a needle
for my daughter’s long socks
and a piece of white thread,
at times the entire world
reduced to this
* Poems from my Tanka Diary of 198l.
Published for the first time. Sanford Goldstein
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
72
Martin Grenfell
books, papers and junk
bagged and stacked in my closet
neatly divided
are the phases
of my life
spring cleaning
tossing out years and years of
birthday cards
I cannot resist
re-reaping their well-wishes
iffy at first
spluttering, choking and then
idling nicely
with an old friend
working in the mall
for Keesje
at the cricket - CRACK!
so well timed! so well placed!
arcing beautifully
the bottle cap strikes
the bald head five rows down
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
73
Michele L. Harvey
even though
it happened years ago
my heart
makes my feet move faster
near the place where she was found
the ache
of some small injustice
quietly recedes
into the background noise
of the evening news
the house
belonged to her alone
my sister
told the neighbor
with a pistol in her hand
in the west
the thinnest slice of moon
caught beneath
the pool of a street lamp
a hooker lights up
the knife
went through the laundry
in his jeans . . .
somewhere, outside
the wind rattles branches
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
74
Michele L. Harvey
that thrush
moving from tree to tree
in dusky woods
sings my heart
from a tip-top branch
satisfied
I curl into your arms
and try
to close my eyes
while glaciers melt
she said
she chose the biggest purse
for knitting
the little old lady
at the all you can eat bar
innocently
he bats his eyelashes
and hands me
three polished buttons
and the shirt off his back
I strain
to hear the hushed call
of an owl . . .
then ask him once more
to repeat his dream
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
75
Michele L. Harvey
the growl
of traffic helicopters
overhead
the thought to stifle
the words I should say
talking
about his Parkinson’s
he bends down
to coat a dandelion
with herbicide
much younger
than her artist beau
she suggests
we try the antique bench
while she looks at canes
constellations
formed by fallen leaves
of a sweet gum . . .
I reach down
to touch the stars
columns
laid out neatly
additions
and subtractions
of her well-ordered life
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
76
Michele L. Harvey
the cant
of city sycamores
over the street
away from dark buildings
reaching for light and for air
they said
the perfect girl was half
your age
plus seven years . . .
then they repeated, “Perfect!”
cables
catch and carry the bridge
I see
in rush hour traffic
the warp and woof of my life
a love note
folded and tucked
back into place
hidden long ago
from the light of day
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
77
CW Hawes
back broken
the barn roof sags sharply
in the middle
across the field sounds
of new home construction
This, my new home:
a second floor apartment
in the suburbs;
through the open window,
only the sound of traffic.
out of the clouds
rising majestic
golden Luna
at her feet lie all
the city’s lights
Reciting
the names of God in the
early morning;
the beauty of the sunrise,
the name unsayable.
a blade of grass
the key to gnosis and yet
overlooked
Alexander’s stroke and
the tangle of our words
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
78
CW Hawes
this feeling
of joy welling up
inside me
just a little off key
singing “Amazing Grace”
I listen
to sober voices
on the news
another orchid
flower folds in death
these little
flakes of snow floating
in the air
will you also make
snow angels this year
I have come
this far and find the trees
mostly bare
under the grey sky
a candle and hot tea
everywhere
bodies frozen in death
forgotten
the names of these men
in the war photo
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
79
CW Hawes
Why does it
bother me so now
to see her?
That favorite tree
how long cut down?
...and for how long
has this old red fountain pen
been my friend?
Those awkward school days,
still a bitter memory.
November’s
half-moon waning in the
10 a.m. sky
love and happiness come
to an old man at last
grinding ink
lost in thought this cold
snowy night
paintings of iris
and grass orchids
the building gone
the many trees and roses
cut down and plowed up
bare earth and a big hole
awaiting a new vision
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
80
CW Hawes
at my desk
reading a report
on staffing
a co-worker’s voice
wakes me up
coming down
from the mountaintop
forty days
of wordless words said
in a voice still, small
these thoughts
that should not take shape
in my mind
the crows have settled
on the front lawn
today I sold
myself for five gallons
of gasoline
this thought which will not
go away
I opened
my mouth and spoke the words
on my mind
the terror of being
called a terrorist
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
81
CW Hawes
a last breath
drawn in and exhaled
finally
the words all the words
no longer matter
very slowly
the cup of tea grows
too cold
just the way I
imagine my body
this willow
weeping weeping weeping
always weeping
I can’t stand the pain
and cut it down
dirty white
these walls slowly squeeze
in on me
the roof exit
refuses to open
two car bombs
too many are dead
and wounded
he nonchalantly
turns to the comics
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
82
CW Hawes
the softness
of the morning deep
in midwinter
the lengthening night
reaches its limit
I wake up
to a snow-globe world
soft and still
the shaking of my life
is now over
in the silence
of the winter landscape
I wonder
why do people think
God is far away
touring churches
admiring the beautiful
architecture
not one remains
a house of God
blood shed
in the name of God
soaks the ground
the soft rain falling
on the begging monk
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
83
Elizabeth Howard
come July
Japanese beetles
eat grape leaves and roses
I wonder
why don’t they eat kudzu?
a rabid army marching
clop clop clop on restroom tile
I peer at strapless heels
pearl ankle bracelet
a rose tattoo
princesses-in-waiting
to the goddess Flora
the willows wear green lace
dance merrily
in the arms of Zephyrus
view from the inn
where we expected
an autumn mountain scene
clumps of red ash berries
rimed with snow
the boat glides slowly
past the crazy mirrors
plunges into the lake—
such the house of horrors
you built for me
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
84
Elizabeth Howard
dressed in pink satin
she feeds lettuce leaves
to a herd of white rabbits
what a fantasy
a yard child sparkling
the sun highlights
the garden’s fringe
a homely pumpkin
posing as
dawn’s chariot
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
85
Roger Jones
these mid-summer nights
I sit on the front porch
in old gym shorts
smoking cheap cigars
till way after midnight
summer evening:
in the wide field where I stand
that quiet voice
tells me again
I will live forever
in the end she chose
to marry her young doctor—
a logical choice
given his salary
and her love of things.
woodsmoke scent
in the frigid night air;
how much sharper the click—
click of my shoes as I walk
home from her place
New Year’s Eve:
isolated firecrackers
popping down the block;
I stay up late to watch
an old WWII movie
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
86
Roger Jones
under the Milky Way
we walk back to our cabin
from the camp laundry room
discussing our watches
and how well they keep time
someone’s online photos
of our old summer camp:
the footbridge I took
summer nights to her cabin,
all its handrails gone now
insomnia—
after midnight
no one but myself
at the mirror hearing
sleepers in other rooms
spending the night
before a friend’s wedding
in a cheap motel—
listening to
train after train after train
the house looks the same
as thirty years ago;
all the old stories
whirl around it still
but do the walls remember?
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
87
Kirsty Karkow
my wet fingers
modeled and shaped
this polar bear
see it pace the table top
gazing out at snow
it’s damned hard
to travel incognito
in the woods—
this red hood is history
it seems that green is in
why should I
let go of his collar
this little man
who smirks and boasts
of shooting foxes
oh, to be
like Hamlet the Dane
eloquent
in spite of pitfalls
and a rotten mum
rainy day dreams
of flap-dragons and slithy toves
the strangest feeling
my yellow cat smiles widely
and asks for a dish of milk
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
88
M. Kei
snow mist . . .
a faint dusting of white;
spun sugar on the
hard realities of
rural poverty
today the red of cardinals
is too much to bear,
send me the easy sight
of drab dowagers
in their feathered weeds
what is a man
but a worm clinging
to a plank,
lost in the immensity
of God’s ocean?
walk with me to some place
the lamplight doesn’t reach
in the darkness
share forbidden kisses
the sun denies
no loblolly
at this window,
just the
toppled remains
of vine-killed trees
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
89
M. Kei
today perhaps
I’ll buy a little bird seed
so there is something
to find after all
that effort
after days
without sparrows,
suddenly a flood
of little brown birds
in the middle of the rain
sudden sun —
this ice becomes
a sheet of diamonds
too dazzling for
the heart
North East, Maryland
a vein of blue smoke
against the winter sky,
an old black man
huddles over his cigarette
yesterday
the river bottom
was a bowl of fog,
today,
the first green buds
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
90
M. Kei
tails twitching,
white-throated sparrows
forage
the wet green grass
of spring
perched on a
bare branch,
the cooperhawk
watches the tourists
who never notice
Rodgers Tavern —
everything derelict . . .
stone, history, ferry,
yet George Washington
slept here
crows and
train trestles,
the only company
at the crest
of Perry Point
pungy pink
and river red,
an old tugboat
tied to the shore
waiting for work
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
91
M. Kei
Perry Point
one faded
American flag
stands guard over
Pvt Jackson’s grave
the color of hope
pink magnolia trees
blooming
against the windows
of the veterans hospital
the sign says,
“in loving memory”
but
the tree is dead
its trunk shattered
me and my limp
thumping along
the promenade
as pretty girls
rollerskate past
white orchids
on a black Hawaiian shirt,
rum
on the deck behind
the captain’s house
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
92
M. Kei
my daughter
singing in the dark
for an audience
of bats
and a single dog
only in spring
is the crabtree admired,
but this root
marks the
goldfish’s grave
warm sun
gives way to
cool green shadows —
the path less traveled
has made all the difference
dead deer
and white blooms —
this is a thing
I will not
soon forget
pale shoots
of pine candles on
the loblolly,
everything green
is born again
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
93
M. Kei
living in the rear apartment,
I am grateful for
the landlord’s neglect
that permits
wild things to grow
blue flag iris,
a piece of driftwood,
a pebble beach,
these are the things
that stay a traveler’s steps
hobnobbing
at the helm,
the captain and I
talk caulk
and compare irons
all afternoon
the threat of rain
grows heavier;
the sky settles on
unwilling shoulders
golden breasts
polished by the sun,
barn swallows
swifter than thought
vanish in the skies
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
94
Michael Ketchek
passing the bourbon
I knock an empty beer can
off the table—
it doesn’t take much
to get good friends laughing
for one moment
the golden glitter
of her dress
as beautiful
as her bare shoulder
coming home to
the lava lamp left on
especially for me—
an “I love you”
from my sleeping wife
atheist and mystic
how can you be both she asks—
in this world of boundless
cruelty and wonder
how can you not?
Dave moved
to Montana figuring
that would be far enough
to get away from
his heroin connection
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
95
Michael Ketchek
stained-glass window
the plaque reads
“gift of Edward Smith
and wife”
whoever she might be
grains of sand drift
over bleached bones
of those who came before—
how much more warning
do you need?
Friday night
a band really jammin’
if you ain’t lit up now
just when
you gonna be?
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
96
Larry Kimmel
monologues
with tome-tombed men
1
hang it all Browning,
it could almost be mine,
your
Andrea del Sarto
.
1
his impossible love
and the greats known by him
2
Langland,
2
when writing your great Vision
in Chaucer’s London
you could not have envisioned this—
your words on my monitor tonight
— 2a
though six centuries sundered,
I find us fused by a common guilt
verse
vs.
wage-work
— 2b
quoting, you wrote
“the laborer is worth his hire”
tell me about it!—
still, my needs are met
and my wants somewhat
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
97
Larry Kimmel
3
and you, the sage of Concord
3
sane, credible, astute—
a common man
wild
in your own quiet way
— 3a
mornings you wrote
afternoons hoed
took late walks to the Pond —yes,
but those lamplit conversations . . . o,
to have been a fly on your wall
— 3b
trust thyself
—your message
or as Campbell phrased it,
follow your bliss
—
well I have,
guilt and lies not withstanding
4
Han Shan, like you,
I never thought it’d end this way—
you ‘neath your pine
me, my sumac,
our red dust days gone with the wind
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
98
Larry Kimmel
5
Issa,
where have I gone wrong?—
indifferent to housework
kindly to insects,
but revered—? not at all
postscript:
not surprising, is it?, that more
and more, as each old friend ends
his or her grave march,
I hold endless monologues
with tome-tombed men
1 a paraphrase from
A Draft of XXX Cantos; II
, by Erza Pound
2 William Langland, 14th century author of
The Vision of Piers Plowman
3 Ralph Waldo Emerson
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
99
Joseph V. Kleponis
a morning red sky
portending a stormy day
reminds me of you
wrapped in your colorful scarves—
alluring yet dangerous
when the sun is high
and the snow begins to melt
and first buds appear
it feels as if you are here—
how long will this taunting last?
dawn’s rosy fingers
stretched over the horizon
to push away night
while we lingered on the stoop
fingertips barely touching
at the hilltop
purple against snowy white
a single crocus
invites one to speculate
on matters of deepest faith
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
100
Deborah P Kolodji
statues
in the churchyard
with alabaster faces . . .
a stone choir sings gravely
of silence
paddleboats
all empty as we walk
by the lake,
the beginnings of spring
in warming sunrise
he ignores kisses
blown through collagen lips,
grabs the remote—
her new weapon
fails its ballistics test
sunlight cast
against cold pavement . . .
an artist kneels
by a grinning moon
in her chalk painting
sweet fingerings
as he plays a Renaissance flute,
his fingers dancing . . .
we listen, our eyes closed
with maypole dreams
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
101
Deborah P Kolodji
waves lap
the empty shore
as I yearn for some word—
a bottle washes up
without a love note
flooded
with images
from our time together . . .
I walk this beach, hear seagull calls
alone
black cat folded up
away from the rain—
a cardboard sign
says “will work
for food”
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
102
Jean LeBlanc
last trip with my parents: a tanka sequence
that summer, herons
were everywhere, every dip
down in to water,
my father driving slowly
my mother holding her breath
the narrow causeway
cars coming to a full stop
as if the herons
were some exotic species,
pterodactyls in Vermont
why are they called blue
my mother asks. no one says,
it is the blue of longing,
the blue of shallows,
the blue of silence
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
103
Jean LeBlanc
marriage: a tanka sequence
How long, do you think?
A hundred days, a thousand?
Or will we need fingers, toes
to keep track? Or should we live
only in the present tense?
Accidentally torn,
the only photo of them,
my mother’s white suit,
my father standing straight-spined,
the heavy shadows of June—
And if we could live
in the present, the lilacs
always in bloom, promises
unbroken? I never saw
my mother smile quite like that.
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
104
Angela Leuck
what’s missing
from this scene
of earth, water and sky
except someone beside me
on this warm river stone
if my eyes could be
wired shut I wouldn’t look
at you with longing—
how slowly you walked away
that October afternoon
night of no moon
sleepless for hours
thinking of you—
so long since we met
yet the attraction remains
moving slowly
along the path
with the summer wind
goldenrod in bloom &
blueberry stains on your lips
just a narrow
slice of moon—
this feeling
in my life
of something missing
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
105
Angela Leuck
student production
of Romeo and Juliet
do you remember
years ago the love note
you stuffed in my gym shoe?
placing my trust
in a modern day Joseph
no dream
came in the night
to open his heart
rows of cherry trees
in blossom
today your message
telling me
the time is not right
August heat
four red plums on the table
slowly ripen
yet another day
your letter goes unanswered
even on the hottest days
these puddles remain
deep wounds
with each rain
they fill again
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
106
Angela Leuck
Labour Day Weekend
listening to a cricket’s loud chirp—
would our words
have been different
had we known it was the end?
wondering what
I ever saw in him
on this rainy day
when even mountains
vanish in mist
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
107
Bob Lucky
my father’s smile
slightly crooked since surgery—
in the photo
his eyes are closed in the shade
of my late brother’s hat
Sensual Teahouse
was the name on the signboard—
through the open door
the dull clink of beer bottles
the warm glow of a red light
bitter and twisted
I look up at the stars
and wonder
if they wonder
about life on earth; I do
spineless
gutless
heartless—
but I never had the balls
to tell him
fog and rain
rain and fog
it soon becomes clear
boring people
are easily bored
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
108
Bob Lucky
when I learned
there are no solids
no straight lines
I forgave myself
thinking the world was off
nothingness
begins where it ends . . .
I ponder
an empty bag
of donut holes
at the noodle shop
my watch slips off
into the urinal—
retrieving it with chopsticks
proves a waste of time
laughter
and the smell of grilled meat
on the wind—
no more the bleating
of the neighbor’s goat
nothing is
as it appears to be—
so it appears
these greasy fries
aren’t making me fat
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
109
Bob Lucky
more rain
in the forecast—
I stick my hand outside
to feel the air, to touch the wet
future
the time
I thought of you
as one beyond compare
was, I’m afraid, before I knew
better
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
110
Bob Lucky
Strategies
hoping
to get the girl
I study the sky
and try to untangle
the stars
Next morning the electric lines are strung with ice. No one is going out
in this. I see what I have and formulate a plan for chilequiles of sorts: an
unopened jar of salsa, half a bag of tortillas chips, a hunk of dried-out
cheddar, two brown eggs.
wanting
to get the joke
I follow the chicken
across the road
to the other side
I test the eggs for freshness in a bowl of water. One floats to the top. I
boil the other and make nachos with everything else. “Breakfast,” she
says, “for new lovers,” toasting us with a darjeeling I was saving for a
special occasion.
wishing
to know the truth
I lie awake
exhausting
the possibilities
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
111
Cynthia Ludlow
we stroll not touching
along the sea’s thin edge,
he throws a stick
further than his dog can swim
I avoid a patch of soiled sand
spring dawn
promising the world
redemption
bougainvillea
bouncing in the breeze
the giant gong
that started the movies
was like true love
grandma said, once struck
it kept on ringing forever
peeling paint
on the window frame
he said he’d fix—
now he’s up and died
I’ll look for someone else
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
112
Terra Martin
tracing a tanka
on a foggy window
houdini-like
inspiration appears
only to disappear
not suspecting
love at first sight
that ticklish to and fro
of a forget-me-not
spray
the comfort
of a new purse
my life
sorted into
little pockets
the blue jay
on a pedestal
louder and louder
the cacophony
of lofty ambition
wayward winter
undresses
exposing
the growing stem
of a pink tulip
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
113
Terra Martin
almost summer
a star magnolia
still in bud
that bursting desire
to taste your lips
nimble fingers
coax seeds
from a pomegranate
the rosy pleasure
of acquired knowledge
tree climbing
after all these years
another vista
the corner office
with a window
hypnotized
as the moon’s reflection
sails the stream
I see myself
. . . then I’m gone
a blade of grass
emerges
from the snow cover
yet stubbornly
you refuse to call
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
114
Terra Martin
estate auction
priceless items
up for silent bidding
on display
her new face lift
cherry blossoms
in a lake of clouds
the drifting murmur
of falling asleep
nested like spoons
while observing
others phobias
all fears
contagiously
become mine
quickly
the raindrops
slide off my skin
yet the sting of tears
an after taste that lingers
distant sound
of a cuckoo clock
she pauses
before signing
the pre-nuptial
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
115
Terra Martin
among hollyhocks
I’m a lilliputian
a la Gulliver’s travels
I always check for
wasps
clear your mind
says the yogi
instantly
all I see
is dirty laundry
cicada like
as if shedding skin
I remove my evening dress
leaving the hard shell
behind
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
116
Francis Masat
after a storm
the bloody heart
of a fallen cedar—
safe behind my shutters
a lone moth
4th of July
fireworks
on the beach
pieces of the moon
wash ashore
Fantasy Fest parade—
a star and a quarter moon
abreast a breast
all the colors
of a rainbow
granddaughter winces—
at her first taste
of the tart red plum
she now knows
she is no longer a girl
a heron’s eye—
the branch with a lizard
now bare
the breeze still
full of fragrance
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
117
Francis Masat
Dad’s funeral—
de-carding
his Rolodex
dried seeds
left unplanted
yard sale—
all the Barbies gone
except for Ken
placing things in front
of those I’d rather keep
sitting in the zendo—
my folded hands
are empty
my thoughts fill
with your scent
thunder—
across the valley
the woods echo
the sound
the sound
tractor plowing—
seeds fall
in the smell of wet earth
a line of crows
begin their work
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
118
Michael McClintock
the Nob Hill rental
filled with flowers
and groceries—
I see nothing and do nothing
for thinking of you
old feet in old shoes
coming down the hallway
past the door—
a sound I don’t want
to hear again tonight
these hotels
all smell
like soap—
my bitter
evening thought
last winter,
while there was still light,
the first snow
buried an elk, and then buried
the woods it came from
my neighbor the beekeeper
out in the winter shed,
snow coming down . . .
the little light
keeps me awake
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
119
Michael McClintock
so far,
it’s the coldest night
of the year—
I read Frost’s summer poems,
and Whitman’s, about the war
waking late
on New Year’s morning—
foggy rooftops
and a sense of the day
only in outline
the Year of the Rat
puts me to bed, sick with flu;
that wife of mine
folds her shimmering new robe
over my feet, to warm them
from its center
this flat land births
a meadowlark
the size of a comma
to re-balance the earth
wings in the air
and in my heart the cage
they fly from
swinging a little on its hook
screwed to the ceiling
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
120
Michael McClintock
being new
to spring love
the little sparrows
throw together a nest
the wind blows away
this old crone
whose hands are quick
with healing—
one day I may keel over
dead in her flowerbed
the perfect hour
of an afternoon
when the meadowlark rests
and the late train from L.A.
goes by without stopping
those hard little seeds
you sent me last year
from another country
I’ve rooted them in the yard
ready for you to see
ah, small edge
of sound at night
shaking green buds
the long train’s coming in
from the cosmic prairie
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
121
Michael McClintock
Twelve Skinny Kyoka
let’s pray
this will work—
if it doesn’t
no one
needs to know
passing
the VD
to Mr Hotshot
before taking
the cure
noon hour
in the park . . .
a squirrel
or two chatting
with the Mormon boys
the recluse
opens
the door
only for
the cat
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
122
Michael McClintock
she loved him
but he took
too much
of her
time
no longer
a problem
that pretty girl
who picks
her nose
breeding
horses
for
the fun
of it
his green
school sweater—
having loaned it,
the puckers
in front
he threw away
the cigarettes;
now he sucks
lemon drops
and grows fat
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
123
Michael McClintock
hoping
they’re not
thinking
what you think
they’re thinking
the world
doesn’t revolve
around you!—
you’re wrong
she said
keeping
the bad news
from others
she peels
onions
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
124
Jo McInerney
the voice
of a tin whistle . . .
my daughter
once more
my child
warming
our hands round
coffee mugs . . .
shared enthusiasm
no longer enough
afterwards
I search her things
seeking
some remnant
of what I had
children
have become another
species
their words bright noise
their laughter loud
lifting
my eyes to the sky
I wonder
were we all
birds once
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
125
Jo McInerney
overhead
the joists creak
loneliness
aching under
the weight of years
across the table
you sit behind your paper
I behind mine
to an outsider we look
companionable
I see her
her hair down
tending flowers . . .
my mother, an old woman
carrying the secret of her death
when we met
you held my name in your mouth
like a plum . . .
I thought you then
presumptuous
a fish
our baby daughter
slippery and red . . .
emerging from that dark sea
between you and me
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
126
Jo McInerney
I did not
wash his shirt after
he died . . .
the sharp familiar smell
somehow a comfort
we lay on grass
the day before we wed . . .
I made
a daisy chain
you slept
the dog
sleeping at the door
and you
in our bed—the two
animals I love
the way
still clear ahead
but behind
the roads have closed . . .
not that I want to go back
in pieces
the blue china bowl
that was hers . . .
today I will mend
my memories
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
127
Jo McInerney
I wake
in the dark
close
the shutters
a great heat is coming
salt
dissolves in water . . .
after love
neither you nor I
the same
she asked
nothing of me . . .
the best
gifts I could give
my happiness and flowers
grinning up
from a fuzzy childhood
photograph . . .
I smile back
at me
so casual
the manner of it . . .
roadkill
pieces of ruin
by the way
Modern English Tanka — Spring 2008
128
Annette Mineo
watching birds
fly branch to branch
up and up
these winter bare April trees
I remember now ambition
up through my floor
this wet spring day
their old songs booming
my parents in their eighties
cajoling memories I have no part in
kneeling in my garden
the warmth of earth rising
thick and sultry
between my breasts
May just minutes from the womb
even on this
drizzly May morning
how one tiny bird
with his high mighty bell song
can clear the fog from my heart