M ODERN
E NGLISH
T ANKA
Summer 2008
Volume 2 Number 4
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 - Summer 2008 - Vol. 2, No. 4
Copyright © 2008 by Modern English Tanka Press.
Cover Art, “Le Flamboyant,” © 2008 by Karen McClintock.
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 – Summer 2008 – Vol. 2, No. 4
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 — Summer 2008
Volume 2, Number 4.
7
EDITORIALS
8
Alternative Directions in English Tanka by Denis M. Garrison, editor.
11
Tanka in Western Tradition: Sneaking Tanka from the Canon Part II by Michael
McClintock, contributing editor.
34
TANKA
35
Hortensia Anderson
37
Aurora Antonovic
39
Megan Arkenburg
41
Pamela A. Babusci
42
Collin Barber
43
Frederick Bassett
44
Shawn Bowman
45
Owen Bullock
47
Lerys Byrnes
48
Garry Eaton
49
Michael L. Evans
50
David Farrah
51
Amelia Fielden
54
Linda Galloway
55
Denis M. Garrison
56
Victor P. Gendrano
57
Beverley George & Meredith Ferris
60
Sanford Goldstein
68
Margaret L. Grace
71
Martin Grenfell
72
Andrea Grillo
74
Michele L. Harvey
77
C W Hawes
80
Elizabeth Howard
81
Roger Jones
 
84
Kirsty Karkow
85
M. Kei
91
John Kinory
92
Joseph V. Kleponis
93
Deborah P Kolodji
95
Richard Lambert
96
Jean LeBlanc
98
Angela Leuck
103
Erik Linzbach
104
Bob Lucky
109
Terra Martin
115
Francis Masat
118
Michael McClintock
121
Jo McInerney
124
Mike Montreuil
125
Mary E. Moore
126
Aju Mukhopadhyay
127
Gautam Nadkarni
128
Amy Nawrocki
129
Peter Newton
130
April Orr
131
Stephen A. Peters
132
Patrick M. Pilarski
134
Jack Prewitt
136
Patricia Prime
142
John Quinnett
144
Claudia Coutu Radmore
147
Bruce Ross
148
Alexis Rotella
153
Grant Savage
154
Trish Shields
156
Billy Simms
158
Guy Simser
161
R.K. Singh
162
Paul Smith
165
John Soules
166
André Surridge
169
Julie Thorndyke
170
John Samuel Tieman
171
Shalee Treharne
172
Chuck Tripi
173
Jean Tupper
174
Ella Wagemakers
176
Naomi Beth Wakan
177
Liam Wilkinson
180
Jim Wilson
181
Fran Witham
182
Jeffrey Woodward
190
Peter Yovu
192
Letter to the Editor from Ron Zheng.
193
ESSAYS & ARTICLES
194
The Elements of Tanka Prose by Jeffrey Woodward.
207
BOOK NOTES & REVIEWS
208
Japanese Women Poets: An Anthology by Hiroaki Sato. Book note by Michael
McClintock.
209
Modern English Tanka Press: New and Forthcoming Titles. Note by the
editor.
210
Four Decades on My Tanka Road: The Tanka Collections of Sanford Goldstein , by
Sanford Goldstein. Review by Larry Kimmel.
228
this hunger, tissue-thin: new and selected tanka 1995-2005 by Larry Kimmel.
Review by Beverley George.
233
Snow About to Fall by John Barlow. Review by Liam Wilkinson.
235
Rust and Reality: A review of Cigarette Butts and Lilacs, by Andrew Riutta. Review
by Peter Yovu.
239
The Postman’s Round by Denis Thériault. Review by Denis M. Garrison.
242
Eucalypt 4 , edited by Beverley George. Review by Cathy Drinkwater Better.
246
Contributors.
253
Tanka Venues, with abbreviations.
257
Educational Use Notice.
Cover art , “Le Flamboyant,” by Karen McClintock.
E D I T O R I A L S
8
Alternative Directions in English Tanka
Denis M. Garrison
English-speaking tankaists have long enough agonized and bickered over the “What is
Tanka?” question. For too long, the expected answer has been a single definition
(however complex). I think time has proven that expectation to be mistaken. Traditional
Japanese tanka is pentapartite : a five-fold essential structure. Tanka in English is, at least :
1. Pentapartite poems written in the classical waka and post-Meiji tanka Japanese styles
and sensibilities, but in English (viz., “Japanese tanka” or “J-tanka”);
2. Pentapartite poems written in the shape (5-7-5-7-7; S-L-S-L-L; five “poetic phrases”
on five lines; etc.) of Japanese tanka with our gaijin take on “tanka spirit”
[rhetoric of omission, illusive mood, dreaming room, multivalence, aware, yū gen,
wabi-sabi, fū getsu, sono mama, fueki, hosomi , etc.] (viz., “English tanka” or “E-
tanka”); and
3. Pentapartite “new English quintains” (a generic term of art) with a looser adherence
to tanka principles and techniques, yet informed and shaped by them.
It is axiomatic that three such different variations on a poetic form cannot find more
than the narrowest common ground: e.g., this five-fold structure. Modern English Tanka
publishes this full spectrum. It excludes, at one end of the spectrum, slavish imitation
of native Japanese tanka (not only as poor poetry, but as condescending and offensive)
and, at the other end of the spectrum, quintains which indicate either ignorance of, or
disrespect for, traditional tanka. Even MET’s inclusiveness has its limits.
It is my opinion that it will be more productive to recognize that “tanka in English”
really means several varieties of poetry than to judge all tanka in English by the standards
and values of any one of these varieties. Moreover, it is always more useful to judge any
given poem on its own merits and demerits than on a checklist of formal standards.
Another of the abiding problems with defining English tanka (“E-tanka” hereinafter)
might be that efforts have begun at the wrong point. Perhaps a different approach could
be more successful. First, let me clarify that I am not defining “traditional Japanese tanka
(‘J-tanka’) in English.” Rather, the point is to define “E-tanka that maximize proper use
of the traditional techniques and form of native Japanese tanka.” Furthermore, this
discussion is inapplicable to more innovative forms of new English quintains based on
tanka form and spirit, but not bound by them, much less to any poem not on five lines.
The differences between the orthography of poetry in Japanese and in English are
significant; perhaps so much so as to be taken as fundamental. The endless discussions
of lineation in E-tanka perhaps arise from failure to first deal with this difference. That
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
9
controversy over this point has so far been irreconcilable surely suggests a problem in
the premises. Either orthography has some undiscovered controlling role, or perhaps it
has always been a red herring.
A native Japanese tanka may be written in a single line. Other possibilities exist, but this
is the fundamental reality. How, then, may we define the form of a E-tanka? If such a
poem does indeed comprise five phrases* on a single line, some adjustment is needed
to accommodate E-tanka since the use of multiple caesurae in single traditional English
verse lines does not extend to four. There is no pentapartite English poetic line.
* “Phrases” for purposes of this discussion does not refer to the precise grammatical
unit for which that word is used in English grammar and syntax; rather, it refers to a part
/ segment / unit of a poetic line that may be separated by a caesura. It is equal to a
“phrasal utterance” which may be described as an utterance in one breath. Technically,
such a phrasal utterance in English is limited to seven English syllables as that is the
maximum that can be retained in “immediate memory.” This artifact of English poetry
matches well with the Japanese limit of such phrases to five or seven sound units. [See
Reuven Tsur’s Poetic Rhythm: Structure and Performance, An Empirical Study in Cognitive Poetics ;
Chapter 4., Caesura, page 116. Paperback. 378 pages. Peter Lang Publishing; 1998. ISBN
978-0820434445. Available to read online at http://www.tau.ac.il/~tsurxx/Rhythm_
Book_mp/Book_folder/TitlePage.html ]
Reuven Tsur states ( op. cit. , p. 120) that “the iambic pentameter is the longest line that
can be perceived as a rhythmical unit without some kind of segmentation.” Since a pure
iambic pentameter line is ten syllables, it is obvious that a 31-syllable unsegmented poetic
line in English is not possible. Nor, for that matter is a 22-syllable line, nor even a 17-
syllable line. This is, I propose, the genesis of the deeply entrenched traditions of
lineation of haiku in English in three lines and tanka in English in five lines: the end-
stopped line of verse replicates, for the rendition of the poems in English, the one-
breath phrase of Japanese poetry that is traditionally either five or seven sound units.
That is to say, putting a fine point on it, that in E-tanka, line breaks equal caesurae . Two
formal realities of J-tanka, the pentapartite structure of the poem and its segmentation
by caesurae, are maintained in E-tanka by segmenting the poem into five lines whose full
stops equal caesurae. This solidly bases the E-tanka lineation tradition in the essentials
of the poetry as spoken and not in the vagaries of orthography, as is so often suggested.
If my proposition thus far is admitted, then the question of line length for E-tanka can
be resolved readily for a poet who wishes to emulate native Japanese tanka’s “music” or
“meter.” Insofar as a phrasal utterance in English is limited to seven English syllables,
the longest line (traditionally, the fifth) is limited to seven syllables. Distributed
proportionally, that reveals the famous 5-7-5-7-7 as the outer limits of line length. That
rubric allows for lines 2 and 4 to be slightly shorter than line 5 and for lines 1 and 3 to
be shorter yet. From this starting point, the poet must tune the poem to his/her ear. The
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
10
resultant tanka could be much shorter than 31 English syllables.
This analysis suggests the so-called “full-count” or 31-syllable E-tanka could be at the
virtual physical limit of the form and that any modulation of the form would necessarily
consist in cutting. It also offers an explanation of why some people perceive “full-count”
tanka as “too long;” i.e., because, already pushing the limits of the line, one or more of
the lines may fail to work at its length. Put another way, failed lines operating at a natural
outside limit would tend to be perceived as over-long. It must be admitted, as obvious,
that a poet may use and modulate the full-count lines skillfully to create a 5-7-5-7-7 tanka
that is, in fact, exactly as long as it should be. Fine full-count tanka are certainly possible.
The variability of English syllable lengths guarantees that, inevitably, full-count English
tanka will actually vary quite significantly in overall aural length. In any case, while the
pentapartite nature of tanka is definitive , line length is rather a benchmark than a rule.
These alternative directions for the definitive description of English tanka fundamentals
are offered for discussion and for experimentation. We can hope that, over time, some
clarity in these matters will be achieved. ~Denis M. Garrison, editor
__________________________________________________________________
Below are this issue’s three tanka chosen for the back cover of the print edition. Our
congratulations to these fine poets on their excellent verses.
I’m reading
bending for a coin
re-reading his letter—
spotted from six paces
the answer
the vagrant
to my question lies
picks it up as carefully
in what is not there
as if it were an egg
~Amelia Fielden
~Patricia Prime
when you call my name
so soothingly, I rise
and drift from that dream
and shiver to hear the tick
of sleet on the windowpane
~Jeffrey Woodward
NOTE: As we move into the third volume of Modern English Tanka with the ninth issue,
we are making some changes in the submissions and copyright policies and, in particular,
in the digital (online) edition’s format. We are moving to using PDF pages for the digital
edition, as the manual coding of a 250-260 page journal every quarter is becoming far too
labor-intensive to maintain. Please read the detailed announcement on the website.
— Denis M. Garrison, editor
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
11
Note to Readers: The short anthology presented below is a continuation of “Tanka in
Western Tradition: Sneaking Tanka from the Canon”, which appeared in our previous
issue, Modern English Tanka , V2, N3, Spring 2008. For comments about the methodology
used, rationale, and purposes of this unique survey, please read the essay and notes
contained therein.
Tanka in Western Tradition, Part II:
More Gleanings from the Canon
Selected and arranged by Michael McClintock
Throughout history the encounter and mingling of literatures has brought about the re-
appraisal of the traditions and content of those involved. Masoaka Shiki certainly had in
mind new ideas coming into Japan from the West when he launched the reform of
traditional waka and decided to call it tanka, giving it a new purpose and a different
footing in aesthetics.
Our study of Japan’s waka and tanka is another example of that process. There is a
need to go beyond what the translators of Japanese waka and tanka have afforded us in
their works. Our desire to create, write, and invest an authentic tanka into our literature
has involved, also, a re-appraisal of English poetry, from its beginnings through the
modern era. The “tanka” we present here are some of our gleanings, and are meant to
reveal those aspects of our literature—those poems within poems—upon which we may
confidently base a new poetics for the short English lyric. We have clearly been there
before, but the route has been circuitous and the path cluttered with debris.
These excerpts span six centuries and are taken from some of the masterworks of
English-language poets. They are powerful models and, should we choose to view them
as such, may represent the best part of a great and powerful tradition from which we
might draw our best and strongest models.
Let us live,
my Lesbia, and love,
and value at a penny
all the talk
of crabbed old men.
Catullus
from “Vivamus mea Lesbia . . .”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
12
Somer is come,
for every spray
now springes;
the hart hath hong
his olde hed on the pale
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
from “The soote season . . .”
when I weep,
she says teares
are but water:
and when I sigh,
she sayes I know the art
Edmund Spenser
from “Amoretti [18.]”
your selfe
unto the Bee
ye doe compare;
and me unto the Spyder
that doth lurke in close awayt
Edmund Spenser
from “Amoretti [71.]”
Dark is my day,
whiles her fair light
I miss,
and dead my life
that wants such lively bliss
Edmund Spenser
from “Amoretti [89.]”
His paper pale despair,
and pain his pen doth move.
I can speak
what I feel, and feel
as much as they
Sir Philip Sidney
from “Some lovers speak . . .”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
13
My food
shall be of care
and sorrow made,
my drink nought else
but tears fallen
Sir Walter Ralegh
from “Like to a hermit . . .”
Whose sweet
spring spent, whose summer
well nigh done—
of all which passed
the sorrow only stays.
Sir Walter Ralegh
from “Like truthless dreams . . .”
the marigold
abroad the leaves
did spread
because the sun’s and
her power is the same
Henry Constable from “Of his Mistress
upon Occasion of her Walking in a Garden”
Whose feet
do tread green paths
of youth and love;
the wonder of all eyes
that look upon her
Samuel Daniel
from “Delia [6.]”
‘Tis nine years now
since first I lost my wit,
bear with me,
then, though troubled
be my brain
Michael Drayton
from “Idea”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
14
come
let us kiss
and part:
nay, I have done;
you get no more of me
Michael Drayton from “Since there’s no help,
come let us kiss and part”
How many
paltry, foolish, painted things
that now
in Coaches trouble
ev’ry Street
Michael Drayton
from “Idea in Sixtie Three Sonnets [6.]”
If there were, oh!
an Hellespont of cream
between us,
milk-white mistress,
I would swim to you
John Davies from “The Author Loving These
Homely Meats . . .”
Joseph turn back;
see where your child doth sit,
blowing,
yea blowing out
those sparks of wit
John Donne
from “La Corona—4. Temple”
whence comes it
that all which was,
and all which should be writ,
a shallow seeming child,
should deeply know?
John Donne
from “La Corona—4. Temple”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
15
I am a little world
made cunningly of elements,
and an angelic sprite,
but black sin hath betrayed
to endless night
John Donne
from “Holy Sonnets [5.]”
Whenas in silks
my Julia goes, then, then,
methinks, how sweetly
flows that liquefaction
of her clothes
Robert Herrick
from “Whenas in silks my Julia goes”
You beat your pate,
and fancy wit will come,
knock as you please—
there’s nobody
at home.
Alexander Pope
from “An Old Saying”
Tiger! Tiger!
burning bright in the forests
of the night,
what immortal hand or eye
could frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
from “The Tiger”
My Mary’s asleep
by thy murmuring stream,
flow gently,
sweet Afton,
disturb not her dream.
Robert Burns
from “Sweet Afton”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
16
To warm
their little loves
the birds complain:
I fruitless mourn to him,
that cannot hear
Thomas Gray
from “On the Death of Mr. Richard West”
From low to high
doth dissolution climb
and sinks
from high to low,
along a scale
William Wordsworth
from “Mutability”
You strange,
astonished-looking,
angle-faced,
dreary-mouthed,
gaping wretches of the sea
James Leigh Hunt
from “To a Fish”
It flows through
old hushed Egypt
and its sands,
like some grave mighty thought
threading a dream
James Leigh Hunt
from “To the Nile”
the lore
of mighty minds
doth hallow in
the core of human hearts
the ruin of a wall
George Gordon, Lord Byron
from “To Lake Leman”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
17
Chillon!
thy prison is
a holy place
and thy sad floor
an altar
George Gordon, Lord Byron
from “On the Castle of Chillon”
mud
from a muddy spring –
Rulers
who neither see,
nor feel, nor know
Percy Bysshe Shelley
from “England in 1819”
Childhood and youth,
friendship and love’s first glow,
have fled like sweet dreams,
leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
from “To Wordsworth”
on the shore
of the wide world
I stand alone,
and think till love and fame
to nothingness do sink.
John Keats
from “When I Have Fears”
I dreaded walking
where there was no path
and pressed
with cautious tread
the meadow swath
John Clare from “I dreaded walking
where there was no path”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
18
Dead is my father,
dead is my good mother,
and what on earth
have I to do
but die?
Hartley Coleridge
from “Think upon Death”
Our fears
our hopes belied—
we thought her dying
when she slept,
and sleeping when she died.
Thomas Hood
from “The Death-Bed”
I used to revel
in a pie, or puff,
or tart –
we all were Tartars
in our youth
Thomas Hood
from “Sweets to the sweet – Farewell (Hamlet)”
The little lamp
burns straight,
its rays
shoot strong and far;
I trim it well
Emily Brontë
from "The Visionary"
I sat
in silent musing,
the soft wind
waved my hair:
it told me Heaven was glorious
Emily Brontë
from "The Night-Wind"
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
19
the sky
that lovely blue;
they're smiling
in a winter's sun,
those evergreens
Anne Brontë
from "The Arbour"
where none
shall dare
restrain us
we can meet again,
in thought.
Charlotte Brontë
from "Parting"
I know the language
owls speak in loneliness,
ageless to me,
mothered of willows that sleeve
the Boyne on moon-dead nights
Flannagan McKamry
from “Drumkeeran in Leitrim”
What I do
and what I dream
includes thee,
as the wine must taste
of its own grape
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
from “Go from Me”
First time
he kissed me,
he but only kissed
the fingers of this hand
wherewith I write
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
from “First time he kissed me”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
20
the glimmering stars
are seen like gold and silver sands
in some ravine
where mountain streams have left
their channels bare!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
from “The Galaxy”
half-way up the hill
I see the Past lying beneath me
with its sounds and sights, --
a city in the twilight
dim and vast, with smoking roofs
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
from “Mezzo Cammin”
In the long,
sleepless watches of the night,
a gentle face—
the face of one long dead—
looks at me from the wall
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
from “The Cross of Snow”
I delight
in the rough billows,
and the foam-ball’s flight:
I love the shore
upon a stormy day
Charles Tennyson-Turner
from “The Quiet Tide Near Ardrossan”
My mother—
my own mother,
who died early,
was but the mother
of myself
Edgar Allan Poe
from “To my Mother”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
21
Why preyest thou
thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture,
whose wings
are dull realities?
Edgar Allan Poe
from “To Science”
A fountain
and a shrine,
all wreathed
with fairy fruits and flowers,
and all the flowers were mine.
Edgar Allan Poe
from “To One in Paradise”
false allurements
are the Threads the Spider
from her Entrail spins,
and spreads for Home
and hunting-ground
Edward Fitzgerald
from “Bird Parliament”
In May,
when sea-winds pierced
our solitudes,
I found the fresh rhodora
in the woods
Ralph Waldo Emerson
from “The Rhodora”
I was born
upon thy bank,
river,
my blood flows
in thy steam.
Henry David Thoreau
from “I Was Born Upon Thy Bank, River”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
22
My life
has been the poem
I would have writ,
but I could not
both live and utter it.
Henry David Thoreau
from “My Life Has Been the Poem”
the sun looked over
the mountain’s rim:
and straight was a path
of gold for him, and the need
of a world of men for me.
Robert Browning
from “Parting at Morning”
such perfect sound
fell from his bowstring
that th’ethereal dome
thrilled as a dewdrop;
and each passing cloud expanded
Aubrey De Vere
from “The Sun God”
The cherry-tree
sheddeth her leaves
in the fall,
the crow and the clamoring raven
call—and that is all!
Bayard Taylor
from “Two Seasons”
Most men know love
but as a part of life;
they hide it
in some corner of the breast,
even from themselves
Henry Timrod
from “Most men know love . . .”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
23
How far the ring
of purple tiny flowers
had climbed—
just starting, maybe,
with the May
Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
from “How oft in schoolboy days . . .”
In front
the sun climbs slow,
how slowly,
but westward, look,
the land is bright.
Arthur Hugh Clough from “Say Not the
Struggle Nought Availeth”
I think I could turn
and live with animals,
they are so placid
and self-contained, I stand
and look at them long and long
Walt Whitman
from “The Animals”
The miracle, spreading,
bathing all, the fulfilled noon,
the coming eve delicious,
the welcoming night and the stars,
over my cities shining all
Walt Whitman from “When Lilacs Last in the
Dooryard Bloomed”
under high cliffs,
and far from the huge town,
I sit me down.
For want of me
the world’s course will not fail
Coventry Patmore
from "Magna Est Veritas”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
24
She lay
stone-still,
and the long darkness
flowed away
with muffled pulses.
George Meredith
from “By this he knew she wept . . .”
Like sculptured effigies
they might be seen
upon their marriage tomb,
the sword between; each wishing
for the sword that severs all.
George Meredith
from “By this he knew she wept . . .”
Pale lies
the distant shadow
of the tomb,
and all that draweth
on the tomb for text.
George Meredith
from “What are we first? . . .”
it might be
summer or winter
for aught I can say;
so unrecorded
did it slip away
George Meredith
from “I wish I could remember . . .”
A day of days!
I let it come and go
as traceless
as a thaw
of bygone snow
George Meredith
from “I wish I could remember . . .”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
25
The soul selects
her own society,
then shuts the door;
on her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Emily Dickinson from
“The Soul Selects Her Own Society”
from some wonder
of new woods and streams
he woke,
and wondered more:
for there she lay
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
from “Nuptial Sleep”
Look in my face;
my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more,
Too-late, Farewell; unto thine ear
I hold the dead-sea shell
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
from “A Superscription”
Only our mirrored eyes
met silently
in the low wave;
and that sound came to be
the passionate voice I knew
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
from “Willowwood”
And as I stooped,
her own lips rising there
bubbled
with brimming kisses
at my mouth.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
from “Willowwood”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
26
He did not love me living;
but once dead he pitied me;
and very sweet it is
to know he still is warm
though I am cold.
Christina Rossetti
from “After Death”
A nameless girl
in freshest summer-greens,
a saint, an angel—
every canvas means
the same one meaning
Christina Rossetti
from “In an Artist’s Studio”
Go from me,
summer friends,
and tarry not;
I am no summer friend,
but wintry cold
Christina Rossetti
from “From Sunset to Star Rise”
sometimes
when a wind sighs
through the sedge
ghosts of my buried years
and friends come back
Christina Rossetti
from “From Sunset to Star Rise”
And showering down
the stars like sudden rain.
And evermore
men shall go fearfully,
bending beneath their weight
Christina Rossetti
from “Vanity of Vanities”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
27
the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble
in the wabe;
all mimsy were the borogoves,
and the mome raths outgrabe.
Lewis Carroll
from “Jabberwocky”
the morning light
slips faint and grey
‘twixt the leaves of aspen,
betwixt the cloud-bars,
that are patiently waiting
William Morris
from “Summer Dawn”
Thy moist limbs
melted into Salmacis,
and the large light
turned tender in thine eyes,
and all thy boy’s breath softened
Algernon Charles Swinburne
from “Hermaphroditus (IV)”
But one by one
we must all
file on
through the narrow
aisles of pain.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
from “Solitude”
Surely there was a time
I might have trod
the sunlit heights,
and from life’s dissonance
struck one clear chord
Oscar Wilde
from “Hélas!”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
28
Out of the dusk
a shadow,
then, a spark;
out of the cloud a silence,
then, a lark
John Banister Tabb
from “Evolution”
this is winter,
and the London streets
are full of soldiers
from that far, fierce fray
where life knows death
E. Nesbit
from “In Hospital”
There is something
in the autumn that is native
to my blood—
touch of manner, hint of mood;
and my heart is like a rhyme
Bliss Carman
from “A Vagabond Song”
in the crevices
of Caesar’s tomb
the sweet herbs
flourish
on little earth
George Santayana
from “As in the midst of battle”
With the first dream
that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run,
I am gathered
to thy heart.
Alice Meynell
from “Renouncement”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
29
Nine bean rows
will I have there,
a hive for the honey-bee,
and live alone
in the bee-loud glade.
William Butler Yeats
from “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”
Seeing all things
in the shadow of a dream.
And ever sadlier,
as the stars expired,
we found the poppies rarer
Ernest Dowson
from “Gray Nights”
whirling suns
shall blaze and then decay,
shall run their fiery courses
and then claim the haven of
the darkness whence they came
James Weldon Johnson
from “Mother Night”
thou and those
who with thee died
for right have died,
the Present teaches,
but in vain!
Paul Laurence Dunbar
from “Robert Gould Shaw”
I have been
one acquainted
with the night.
I have walked out in rain—
and back in rain.
Robert Frost
from “Acquainted with the Night”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
30
She is as in a field
a silken tent at midday
when a sunny summer breeze
has dried the dew
and all its ropes relent
Robert Frost
from “The Silken Tent”
Some eyes condemn
the earth they gaze upon;
some wait patiently
till they know far more
than earth can tell them
Edward Thomas
from “Some Eyes Condemn”
The czar
has eight million men
with guns and bayonets.
Nothing can happen
to the czar.
Carl Sandburg
from “The People, Yes”
Pile the bodies high
at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under
and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.
Carl Sandburg
from “Grass”
The sun,
which burns from copper
into brass,
melts these at noon,
and makes the boys unfold
Elinor Wylie
from “Wild Peaches [2.]”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
31
Does it matter?—
losing your leg? . . .
For people will always
be kind; and you need not
show that you mind
Siegfried Sassoon
from “Does It Matter?”
through this thick air—
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
H.D.
from “Heat”
I hate my verses,
every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils
ever to try
one grass-blade’s curve
Robinson Jeffers
from “Love the Wild Swan”
towards the end
he to the dark tower came
set square in the gate,
a mass of blackened stone
crowned with vermilion fiends
Edwin Muir
from “Milton”
If there is any life
when death is over,
these tawny beaches
will know much of me,
I shall come back
Sara Teasdale
from “On the Dunes”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
32
Oh Earth,
you are too dear to-night,
how can I sleep
while all around
floats rainy fragrance
Sara Teasdale
from “June Night”
I do not know
much about gods;
but I think that the river
is a strong brown god—
sullen, untamed and intractable
T. S. Eliot
from “The Dry Salvages [opening stanza]”
She sang
and danced on gracefully
and calm,
the light gauze hanging
loose about her form
Claude McKay
from “The Harlem Dancer”
Thou are not lovelier
than lilacs, —no, nor honeysuckle;
thou art not more fair
than small white single poppies, —
I can bear thy beauty
Edna St. Vincent Millay from
“Thou art not lovelier than lilacs”
Watch me who walk
through coiling streets
where rain
and fog
drown every cry
Stephen Spender
from “Where that once clear aim . . .”
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
33
The city builds
its horror in my brain,
this writing
is my only
wings away.
Stephen Spender
from “Without that once clear aim . . .”
* * *
____________________
Notes:
1. See also “Tanka in Western Tradition: Sneaking Tanka from the Canon” by
Michael McClintock, Modern English Tanka Vol.2, Number 3, Spring 2008.
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
T A N K A
35
Hortensia Anderson
the light
shimmers across dark sand—
rose moon;
surfing the waves of wind,
the fragrance of flowers
the river of heaven
flows through our windows—
night turns slowly
as one by one the stars
take on the blue of day
a stroll on the beach
hair twined with seaweed
my sister’s hand in mine;
clutching sand with our toes
starfish stick to our shoulders
A splash of rain
through the window;
on my painting,
the blue of the river
joins the blue of the sky
caught—
the ocean embraces me
in a riptide;
will you too cast me aside,
an empty shell on the shore?
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
36
Hortensia Anderson
waves
scallop the shoreline
in the sand;
through pink whorls of the conch
the ancient song of the sea
a light mist hovers
over fields of heather—
summer dusk;
we dream in the darkness
of our hammock between trees
summer darkness—
pale sweet flowers make me weep
as I yearn for you;
raindrops too, swell by the weight
of their sadness into tears . . .
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
37
Aurora Antonovic
amongst my papers
old letters from
you—
the mad urge to spring clean
in the fall
shelves
overflow with books
that spill onto the floor,
under the bed, and yet—
never enough poetry
awaking
the taste of anesthetic
still on my tongue
if only I could sleep through
all of life’s unpleasantness
don’t leave me
he begged his mother
hours before his death
bedside she holds her breath
while he fights for his
graves
of my baby brother
two older siblings
family reunion
at the cemetery
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
38
Aurora Antonovic
no longer
a new love
yet better still—
the comforting embrace
of flannel
gently
rain taps on the window
slides down the pane . . .
how easily he makes
everything better
age seven
finishing my sister’s copy of
Little Women
not wanting to believe that Beth dies
I imagine a new ending
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
39
Megan Arkenburg
how do they do it,
those men who love their gardens
as I loved you—
how can they bear the wilting
of so many roses?
before it was sold
I took one last walk through
the cold and empty house
all I can think of
as your hands brush mine
knowing for certain
that you don’t love me
how I long
just once, for the comfort
of doubt
digging deeper
into thoughts of you
in this lonely stairwell
at each level
a different darkness
losing you
again and again
what I would give
for a night
without dreams
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
40
Megan Arkenburg
in spite of you
may this year comes
like every may before
in these spring leaves
fall colors
last quiet morning
before the birds’ return . . .
in all these beginnings
how we focus
on the end
learning to live
without you again
would be so much easier
if I could live again
without you
frozen
in the back seat of your car
our last night together—
three weeks later
this rose remains un-wilted
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
41
Pamela A. Babusci
her colorless life
will never be
in a fellini film . . .
she places flowers daily
on the church altar
her love was voiceless—
finding a note i gave
my mother
when i was eight
hidden in her prayer book
i decided to leave
& not look back
at my broken heart . . .
sky teaming
with topaz stars
stone buddha
silent for a
thousand years . . .
in the temple yard
voice of the wind
transparent wings
of the dragonfly . . .
without a thought
he rips her paper-thin heart
to shreds
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
42
Collin Barber
moon
get drunk with me tonight!
I made a promise
I would never drink alone
again
child by child
the swimming pool fills
with laughter
I find myself sliding
into old summers
a crowded nest
of day-old meadowlarks
bursting with song
as if this day
is the last
in a courtyard flooded
with tourists and pigeons
how wild
these thoughts of you
roaming through my mind
an old piano
no one ever plays
except for that damn cat
this one time
on this latest of nights
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
43
Frederick Bassett
The white feral cat
keeps its distance
in the wooded lot
while you haunt
the edges of my life.
The sharp cry
falling from
a lone osprey
in the distant sky
lifts my weary head.
Bufflehead ducks
two by two
have claimed the tidal creek.
They’ll soon fly north
as predictable as my longing.
The last tree swallow
darts and dives
in the twilight
above the still lake.
We’ve both had a bad day.
Something harsh
now plows
so deep on your face
I must look away
to remember its beauty.
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
44
Shawn Bowman
O vanity
mirror—
the world
and all that’s in it
behind me
realizing
I’ve been selfish lately
and wondering where
I’ve found the time . . .
O, thank you
it is no matter
if no one is listening
what was spoken
will hit you in waves,
what was said is in the air
I close my book and sip,
a river runs through grains
at the bottom of my coffee,
a science forming
all along
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
45
Owen Bullock
piano practice—
in the silence
between scales
a bird perches
on an aerial
she’s having a funeral
for her relationship
it’s more like an operation
I wait outside
hope she’s alright
gesso
over old canvas
my daughter
is coming home
to stay
daddylonglegs
swings towards the reflection
of its body
on the wall
beside our bed
the hitchhiker
sticks out his thumb
then looks around
& there’s no-one
behind him
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
46
Owen Bullock
several days later
in the house where you are
often not at home
that over-tipped cup
is still under the chair
I’ve studied poetry
most of my life
and all I’ve done
is kissed the surface
of the water
reliving
our love
massaging your back
& what it leads to
this sweet thought
two boys and a girl
round & round a tree
one of the boys
doubles back
& the girl laughs out loud
museum—
not so interested
in how moas became extinct
as much as
the way to the toilet
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
47
Lerys Byrnes
polished table
the blue bowl you gave
holds golden quinces
the sharp tang
your absence
Mother’s Day roses
ruby petals drop
in a farmlands town
sudden tragedy
and summer lilacs
magpie family
edges closer
each dry day
the water bucket
dissolves boundaries
great-grandmother’s
old clock ticks
past present
the children
watching DVDs
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
48
Garry Eaton
strapped
to a screaming reel
I set the hook,
shedding water beads, and hear
a distant alarm clock ring
the glum face
on the old-fashioned radio
glares back at me
and only speaks
when I twist its nose
my water bottle
jeweled and filigree silver
by Pierre Cardin
filled from the kitchen tap
each day before work
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
49
Michael L. Evans
perhaps
it was just a dream
that night
your kiss sizzled with the flavor
of fire-roasted peppers
winter nights
when the world is silent
you stroll my dreams
your silk dress whispering
for me to come to you
how sad
that when you call
late at night
the happiness you left me for
is never in your voice
at last
just as autumn weights
graying wings
the wild glint returns
to these raven eyes
it means
nothing to me
that you left
your name only comes up
once each dream
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
50
David Farrah
Children playing games
in the riverbed below.
We sit in the house
drinking tea. How wonderful
this company of voices.
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
51
Amelia Fielden
first Christmas
without Pavarotti
playing again
his ‘Panis Angelicus’,
I mourn the year’s losses
waking from dreams
of loved ones long ago
on New year’s Day
I refuse the comfort
of a gorgeous dawn
January :
the sunstruck afternoon
slumbers on—
only the cicadas
are as anxious as I
once, just once
she stayed at that hotel—
why does my heart
relentlessly remind me
whenever I walk past
too often
I am bewildered
by your questions—
which one of us
is wearing a mask
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
52
Amelia Fielden
perhaps your life
of mists alternating
with clear skies
satisfies you now—
I need to see, hear, it all
it has been
roses sweet roses
all the way
plenty of thorns, still
such colours, such scents
I can feel
your body enjoying
everywhere
I touch, he marvels
after twenty-three years
two crows
on a TV antenna
apparently
discussing the weather—
oh, for a plan-free day
once you had
more energy than I,
now you strain
my patience not my heart
through all these aging days
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
53
Amelia Fielden
as autumn tides
hollow out the sand dunes,
your depression
comes and goes, toppling
our old contentment
become a mole
I wear dark glasses
even driving
through mountain tunnels—
once you lit up my life
round the pond ferns
touching their reflections—
how anxious
you become when I leave
even for a little while
more ruthless
and I wouldn’t worry,
less ruthless
and I wouldn’t be going—
the ticket’s already bought
I’m reading
re-reading his letter—
the answer
to my question lies
in what is not there
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
54
Linda Galloway
walking through
the greys and browns
of November woods,
I stop to thank
an especially scrawny tree
deer come
quietly to look for
windfall apples—
my friend’s passing
this night
the soil baring
its rocks and nakedness
before the snows—
I re-examine
my angry words to you
a pheasant’s eye
inside a picture frame
caught frozen
again my husband
asks the same question
as I wonder
how your damaged brain
understands me,
I watch orange poppies
closing in the shade
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
55
Denis M. Garrison
time falters
as I walk back to my car
from her new grave—
chilling, familiar touch!
fingertips slipping away
my Iowa
suffers in the flood
again! again!
not every mile is smooth
but the wheel turns and turns
it’s said that man’s
higher than the angels
although we are flesh
our spirit takes us to sea,
through the cyclone’s hollow heart
Death be damned!
mankind is immortal
we know no time
when we were not—
we’re dreamers . . . not the dream
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
56
Victor P. Gendrano
ending summer
a broken bat
and busted ball
crowd his empty room
their runaway son
Forbidden Love – a tanka sequence
spring advent
from a discreet distance
he waits for her smile
nascent awakening
of forbidden love
sultry summer
their entwined bodies
lie in languorous rest
living only for the moment
such as this
autumn chill
he senses the ticking
of the night’s wall clock
as he tries to fathom
her suicide
winter dusk
he clings to the warmth
of the coffee cup
remembering
her touch
É
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
57
Beverley George and Meredith Ferris
Moorings
A tanka collaboration between
Beverley George and Meredith Ferris
garden courtyard
bulbs I had forgotten
re-emerge
I fossick through
my notebook for your name
overnight
this fallen blossom
on the lawn—
leaning on the rake
my thoughts drift to you
smack of tennis balls
from the new mown court—
in the pavilion
a ripple of young laughter,
a row of suntanned legs
terrace home
voices through the wall
jar and jangle . . .
I pause to listen
can make out not a word
clumps of sand
and discarded shells
on the pier steps
some things I once treasured
no longer matter much
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
58
Beverley George and Meredith Ferris
squealing
when the water rushes in
to fill the moat . . .
she watches in dismay
as it drains into the sand
rocking dinghy
your hands that worked the oars
gentle on my belly
always you surprise me
with the calm that you bestow
mooring our boat
the rope I held so tightly
cuts my hand—
is it only me
who sees so much in us ?
autumn oak
and a gliding moon—
I hold acorns
gathered with you
then let them roll away
tiny daughter
tugs the pocket of my jeans
running
we laugh loudly
renewing my strength
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
59
Beverley George and Meredith Ferris
early dusk
blanketing the horses
in their winter stalls . . .
the warmth of each expelled breath,
hooves restless on new straw
ashes
from winter flames
spill from the grate . . .
I pencil faintly
through your name
É
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
60
Sanford Goldstein
winter rapid-walk: a hurled tanka string
with my new knee,
I once more take to
the village road—
the savage wind trying to
hurl away my woolen cap
over sharp small stones
I make my way into a brisk wind,
woolen cap still in place,
my bear bells always with me
in case of a sleepwalking paw
cars pass me
on the narrow rows
between rice fields
and I sometimes wave and wave
to anti-hitchhiker faces
known in the village
these last two year as the gaijin
who takes long walks,
sometimes I hurl out a greeting
in my weird-sounding Japanese
lonely this early walk
with only birds in flight
or a scudding hare,
my watch to test my timing
never taken out until the end
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
61
Sanford Goldstein
caught in a sudden rain
and then a flurry of snowflakes,
I carry on:
at home find even my jockey’s
wet, my foot soles with sores
it’s not sabi,
not wabi,
a lingering loneliness
even in the discarded white gloves
flat on hard ground and pointing
overhead
a troop of swans
gawking,
and I envy their smooth
formation over my limping gait
relief
from the hard stones
I walk over,
the smooth roads down down
to the car highway
with the new
timer given by my daughter
as a year-end gift,
I check both my old watch
and new toy to test their accuracy
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
62
Sanford Goldstein
one stumble
into a gully where
waters run in force,
and Sanford, you will be
a goner in your eighty-second year
instinct tells me
at times to avoid
a certain path,
and I try to make up the loss
by walking a smooth road six times
once that Harvard summer,
my daily walk twenty-five miles
and an hour of swimming;
today in Snow Country, just this
hour and a quarter seems eternal
trying to show off?
I ask myself with the wind
ripping at my scarf—
in those early years at fifty
perhaps that was the case
in my third year
of a continual dizziness
the Cleveland Clinic
could not cure,
I tell myself I have to do it alone
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
63
Sanford Goldstein
having read
about the Dali Lama
and neuroplasticity,
I walk muttering to myself,
“Rewire balance, Brain!”
in the December cold,
the Siberian wind out to
hurl me over waiting slopes,
my dizziness stops all at once
and lets me walk non-alcoholic
saying aloud
“Rewire” and all that,
a new thought:
my brain’s hearing and speech
won’t let my message through
a woman
on her motorbike
speeds by,
thinking perhaps my wave
that of a dirty old man
too warm in spite of the cold,
my scarf fluttering in the gale-like
wind,
strange how rushes of cold wind
fail to make my lips freeze
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
64
Sanford Goldstein
gusts
to gulp down and down
this windy morning,
and still, still,
I plunge into my rapid
greeted
by the old farm lady
taking garbage
to the Wednesday dump site,
she asks what time my walk began
image after image
flashing through this rapid
morning walk;
poems come and leave,
my mind a pencil unable to write
not
a walkathon,
not a star trek,
the sameness of narrow roads
between mud-filled rice fields
once these fields
on my autumn walks
were brownish-gold,
now the overturned black soil
ready for an old fart’s stumble
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
65
Sanford Goldstein
can poetry
on this same walking agenda
make me unfertile?
lost images fluttering
with every wind-lash
a Moby Dick
sensation, sudden
and violent,
no whales, and still
sleepwalking bears fill my mind
for a moment
even the wind died down
as if by magic lures,
and the sun spilled its light
and warmed my chilled ears
no others
walk these narrow roads
this winter morning
as if all the year’s labor
has been put to rest
the glories
of seventeen-syllabled
nature
not for this rough tongue,
eyes focused on slippery stones
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
66
Sanford Goldstein
last night’s
decorated Christmas cake
my friend bought,
I think about its taste
in this chilly vastness
I have waited
for this dizziness of years
to vanish,
and sometimes half-through
a feeling straight as an arrow
balance
plays tag among the small
and larger stones,
I watch where I step,
not to slide into rice field mud
eighty-two, I know,
is no picnic, the routines
drearied by
piled high vegetable breakfasts
and interminable hour-plus walks
past the cemetery
along the small-stone road
at the halfway point,
another reminder that ends
have to come
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
67
Sanford Goldstein
in the distance
sounds of a barking
dog,
can my bear-bells have stirred
that arousal?
mud balls
line the left side
of my road,
and I wonder if bears
made some nightly raid
soon
the New Year,
nothing
to resolve,
and my walks will continue
É
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
68
Margaret L. Grace
Sikkim Trek
layers of grey mist
ridge upon ridge veiling
kangchenjunga
walking—walking by day
smoky chang at night
dzo bells ringing
bouncing across ravines
sherpas whistling
their rough shod feet
under loads not faltering
climbing through
rhododendron forests
ancient trees
here am I breathless
retracing the road to heaven
carved mani stones
om mani padme hum
along the uphill way
lichen stone shepherd huts
how fierce the guard dog
semiti lake
pilgrims sacred place
a lone white duck
swims an emerald green circle
welcoming the thaw
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
69
Margaret L. Grace
snowing
snowing all night
tents sagging with the weight
the one I left behind
a life time away
before dawn—walking
walking to gotcha la
the mountain gods
paint kangchenjunga gold
pink fingers spreading light
the turning point
across a vast snow field
dragging weary steps
back to a smoke filled hut
offering little refuge
these himalayas
slowly reduce me to
nothingness
even the shining stars
are not permanent
É
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
70
Margaret L. Grace
love stops
at many stations
leaping the barrier
you change destinations
without buying a ticket
ripe plums
clinging onto summer
bitter sweet
you too hung on defying
autumn dark evenings
only a feather
to mark your winter stay
you left in spring
if wings were mine
I would follow you
silk smooth water
only the dipping oar
wild ducks cry
your face in shadow
silent as the fading moon
red robes flapping
lama climbs the path
until far away
yet all around me
air resonates with chant
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
71
Martin Grenfell
scratching my head
tiny flakes of skin
glint in the sun
work is really
wearing me down today
angrily I
tell him to keep the noise down
after the fight
I lie awake for hours
kicking myself
that glitch in
the autopilot appears
three times today
I go back and put
a second teabag in my cup
dandelion seeds
gliding higher, farther
drifting apart
without university
holding us together
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
72
Andrea Grillo
Summer Twilight
inspecting
the house for the last time
my sadness
exits at the garage door
that refuses to open
house closing . . .
the widow faces
the young wife
so blissfully unaware that time
is the table between them
sitting on a bench
outside her new apartment
mom tells me
how fast ants travel
on sidewalk pavement
silently
we watch
birds feeding
mom and I—the last
in our family line
reading
eighteenth-century novels
I give thanks
for a mother who ceded her birthright
to find me a husband
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
73
Andrea Grillo
twilight
the best time to see
beyond
the garden gate
flowers that seed themselves
É
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
74
Michele L. Harvey
she talks
about what could have been
somewhere
a little girl inside
clenches her fists
baring skin
to show off a tattoo . . .
my mind wanders
to that other poet’s words
that moved my heart to tears
allowing
the words to flow around me
I witness
the final dive
of his skipped stone
her things
a life’s accumulation
given away . . .
I lean against my rake
and let the wind take the leaves
blossoms
of a weeping cherry
sweep the ground
making this old heart
dance like a new bride
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
75
Michele L. Harvey
upslope
of the south facing gully
protected
from spring snow and rain
nestles new calves
the quiet boy
proudly shows his best drawings
all monsters
“no, not from outer space”
he said, and points to his head
dishes
that I’ve washed
twenty years
without a chip
there is some caution in my life
the only movement
on this deep summer day
are flycatchers
threading the sun
in and out of plum branches
plain crazy
about anything lit
with a match
the fire chief told him
love was not enough
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
76
Michele L. Harvey
school chums
thought it was funny
when it happened
she was drunk and totally naked
when I was nine
tree roots
folded, at the sidewalk’s edge
like knuckles . . .
the dog and I
bide our time
the rug
covered a hole in the floor
we’d watch
miles and miles go by
beneath the old Plymouth
highlighted pages
of the want ad section . . .
how slender
the distance
between front door and street
enough nights
under a full moon
the light
glimmers through my thoughts
and silvers every strand
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
77
C W Hawes
the rain spatters
my window and the thunder
is soft and distant
the lights of some far off town
beckon to me in mystery
soft the falling rain
watering the trees and the grass
you and me
across the planet from each other
texting our love
apple blossoms
give way to tiny apples
green hinted red
so immature we were then
yet here we are gray-haired
the roses
are in full bloom now
the lilacs are gone
a whiff of a campfire
and thoughts of cider
my knee throbs
with the cold blustery wind
of our late spring snowstorm
these increasing moments
when I feel old and tired
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
78
C W Hawes
Does the land belong
to any of us
in particular?
The book I am now reading,
so long ago borrowed.
that man walking
his dog this sunny morning
head held high
I wonder if he is
also a wage slave
blood-soaked the bodies
littering the marketplace
this hot afternoon
one melon and a small child
not hit by flying shrapnel
thunder booming
for the second night in a row
over the city
lightning flashes in the sky
the ambulance’s shrill scream
and what is left
to do but pick up my bags
and keep on walking
for the sidewalk is empty
and home is miles away
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
79
C W Hawes
I awake each night
covered in this residue
from faceless dreams
and each night I return
to a fitful slumber
the end of the year
I’m at the grocery store
to buy a few things
for a long time I watch
lettuce being sprayed with water
a century plus
of things seen and talked about
and experienced
these breaths my grandfather’s last
the only sound in the room
for how long
has this feeling been
hiding here
the papery nest
the wasps to and fro
deep within me is
that of which only I know
secrets protected, safe
like the hare from the mountains
which still has its eyes open
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
80
Elizabeth Howard
at Children’s Hospital
turtles swim on the t.v. screen
would that I were
playing in Spring Creek
unaware of such heartache
crows quarreling
in the woods
their contentious words
echoing ours
I shut the window
a tobacco peg
on the memory shelf
I wipe off the dust
use it to set bulbs
along the highway
before the rooster crowed
he struck a match
lit the kerosene lamp
the odor of phosphorus
a smoky chimney
what will they do
now that you are gone?
a recluse
a rebel
an unwed mother
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
81
Roger Jones
so many years I questioned
why she kept me so long
till I came to realize
all that time
I was Plan B
all these years
and still
that child-like desire
for a safe place where
monsters can’t find me
local airport:
watching small planes
practice touch-and-gos
while my kids study
a dragonfly in the grass
my wife comes across
an old photo of me
and a long-ago girlfriend
in whose face the dog
has left one perfect bite mark
an image of years ago—
Uncle Ray in his
dress Navy uniform
passing down the hall;
glittering and then gone
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
82
Roger Jones
drunk and climbing shaky stairs
to my place under a full
summer moon, I rattle
the key in the lock just so
and let myself in
learning to tell
the stories of my life
all over again one
by one in fresh breaths
of five lines apiece
fishing for hours
in my favorite cove;
the steady ka-thonk ka-thonk
of cars driving overhead
across Rainbow Bridge
at that time
I had no language yet
for that kind of loneliness;
I felt like a condemned man
sentenced to wander the earth
they seem brave
these wild pink primroses
lining roads and sidewalks—
sometimes only one or two
waggling in the wind
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
83
Roger Jones
our house was a stone;
time ran around it
like a rushing stream
while inside, time stood still
and we never got old
thinking even then
some day this will end;
walking home
from my friend Jay’s party
under the full autumn moon
peeling bark
off a sycamore trunk;
scent of chimneys;
backing up, I’ll take one more
leap into the leaf pile
forty years ago
in the Sierras
kneeling by a rushing stream
to dip a finger in—
the chill still in my hand
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
84
Kirsty Karkow
Listen . . . Can You Hear?
a clear voice
singing ritual patterns
red - gold - gold - blue
another inch of Persian rug
appears upon the loom
rhythmic shuttles
and weavers’ quiet mantras
one small mistake
is slipped into each carpet
. . . only God is perfect
a conversation
of cochineal and plant dyes
symbols
and tales of tribal history
woven into wool
my bare feet pad
this timeworn carpet
treasured
the reverse side as lovely
as the one on which I’ll kneel
É
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
85
M Kei
mostly dead,
but still a few branches
send out
green leaves
this chilly day
they go back
where they came from,
these great brown birds,
but I have no desire
to travel with them
an American flag
behind the captain
at the helm;
behind that
an even taller tall ship
May,
the first wild rose—
small white petals
light up the edge
of the forest
May evening . . .
the chill humidity
a harbinger of summer—
even the grackles
have lost their luster
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
86
M Kei
running against
the storm,
the red light of
the nun buoy
offers haven
withered
on the vine,
the scent of
the last
honeysuckles
creeping jenny,
face pale in
the early morning,
turned up
waiting for rain
the tree
disappearing under
three kinds of
invasive vines . . .
I understand how it feels
cold on bare skin
the summer breeze
whispering of
rain and wind
just over the horizon
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
87
M Kei
my daughter
comes to my window
to call me out
barefoot
into the rain
creeping jennies
closed up in the cold rain,
I teach my daughter
the secrets of
the wild things
waking
at the same time
as always,
this first day of
being unemployed
thunder cracks—
at home,
our tempest
hardly rattles
the teapot
I didn’t know
he was dying when
I stood on
the quarterdeck of his
soon-to-be widowed ship
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
88
M Kei
another Sunday
spent worshiping in
the cathedral of the Chesapeake,
this wooden boat
the only pew
iris leaves
and a few golden
peaches
scattered on the
picnic blanket
I’d like to
pour today’s heat
into bottles
and keep it for
mid-winter
a migraine,
a pill,
a sweltering afternoon,
clouds without rain
days without love
that tree
with the wilted green leaves
as breathless
as this sleeper
on a July afternoon
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
89
M Kei
cold dew on
wild black raspberries—
these are the dawns
that carry summer into
the winter of our years
poledancer,
tall ship style . . .
up the mast
in the bosun’s chair
to reclaim the flag halyard
in the bosun’s chair
above the shrouds,
a certain irony
in the naming of
spars and lines
tucked into
the poetry journal:
oil change coupon
unemployment check
very short grocery list
that dog can
run on water—
the joy of
chasing ducks
never caught
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
90
M Kei
even in this rain,
or perhaps
because of it,
my face
turns to the sea
cloudbow—
thin clouds
a prism
for the light
of many colors
crows arguing
in the summer heat;
limp trees
waiting for the storm
to break
a humid night,
the neighbors’ windows
closed against
the songs of frogs and
dusk piled deep
thunder
stacked on top
of thunder—
the closet starts
to look inviting
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
91
John Kinory
my pen ran out . . .
the chatter
of the concert crowd
made me forget her number
but not her eyes
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
92
Joseph V. Kleponis
on this spring morning
of pale sun, feathery buds
and powdery sky—
we move headlong, not thinking
how soon we will taste the night
on the front porch
a weathered wicker rocker
and a sparrow’s nest
faded after winter’s snow—
promises not yet broken
your bucketful
of hollow apologies
offered to me
with the usual wry smile
steals my heart once again
when you were three
you were a ballerina—
on tiptoe you reached
high over your head smiling
at your improbable feat
a ribbon of road
leading into the darkness
a nighttime journey
or the call of memory
softly whispering your name
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
93
Deborah P Kolodji
icebergs
on distant seas,
a painting takes me there—
stripped of blue-lipped cold
only raw beauty
flowers
trim our straw hats
worn for Mother’s Day brunch—
generations of smiles
all matching
slow and shaky,
she stubbornly shuffles
without assistance—
the walker we gave her
still in the box
white foam
rises against rocks,
gulls splash the air . . .
I stand on the cliff,
my heart with wings
in the confusion
of horses, carriages
and pigeons . . .
a whispered “I love you”
no one hears
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
94
Deborah P Kolodji
the wind,
an odd tailor
changing the shape
of my gauzy skirt—
a hairdresser, too
we stand
in imperfection,
limbs of malformed trees . . .
the perfect breasts of mountains
beyond us
we lay out nets
to catch the sun
instead of fish,
our boats beached
with endings
we see no snakes
as hands coil
around water mugs,
gossip slithers
on the wind
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
95
Richard Lambert
a tank of rainwater
in the allotment
the wind
makes the surface
quiver
on the first day
of spring
my heart is filled
with hatred, love—
old things
mid-afternoon
the shutter bars are open
everything is caged
the leopard whose growl
rolls up and down his chest
the Scots pine
sings in the wind
howls and cries
behind barbed wire, brambles,
a rusted gate
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
96
Jean LeBlanc
Deepening shadows
mark the end
of spring semester.
So many chapters
left unread.
In the morning
you smell faintly
of cinnamon. I give us
another half hour
of warm mulled sleep.
as one lover reads,
another book
lies open
on another bed,
untouched
there, in that corner,
the bleeding heart, the poppy
the winter garden
where hope and loss
grow side by side
On my desk: fossils,
a roll of coins, shells,
a deck of cards, a kazoo.
Old, cheap, empty,
dog-eared, silly.
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
97
Jean LeBlanc
how deliberately
the assassin bug
makes its way across
the coneflower, petal
by petal, leg by leg
on each picture frame
so much dust, as if no one
has lived here
since the ones in the photos
were alive
between the flagstones
weeds whose names
I relearn
every
spring
white dogwood
amidst the gray
of an unwelcome spring
—who writes
this understory?
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
98
Angela Leuck
my mother’s
steady faith
year after year
planting alyssum
among stones
amaryllis buds—
she never understood
why I dropped her,
the friend
who wouldn’t bend
at the end
of our brief summer
wild asters
spill their blue
over the hillsides
past the potted azaleas,
you dash
across the lawn,
laughing
as the rain pours down
not quite regal
the ragged petals
of bee balm
yet how benevolently
it reigns in the garden
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
99
Angela Leuck
on a quiet street
where love
came and went
pink bleeding hearts
at dusk
should I blame
it on love
or pink bougainvillea—
the lingering kiss
by the flower vendor’s stall?
learning to appreciate
its prickly beauty—
the cactus I bought
when my son became
a rebellious teen
among the undergrowth
a cardinal flower’s
bright splash of red—
not always easy
being the outspoken one
the warning signs
were there, but still
I trusted him—
the pungent scent of cleome
even before I turned my head
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
100
Angela Leuck
pure and unsullied,
the petals of white
crocuses—
I wonder what to make
of his apology
after the fragrance
of dogwood—
smiling
at the man
with the golden husky
feverfew—
I crush the leaves
between my fingers,
not the first to find
comfort where I can
forsythia
sprouting flowers
before leaves—
so many times
I couldn’t wait to fall in love
trying to calm down
after our fight
I stare
at the fuchsia’s
hot pink
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
101
Angela Leuck
as if to punish me
for my neglect
the hibiscus’
single bloom points
in the other direction
pink hollyhocks
after the storm
I know
what it’s like
to be laid low
wings like petals,
a dragonfly
on the hostas—
the details
of my life
at the grocery
those fragrant pots
of white hyacinth—
in the depths of winter
our hurried spring
breathing
in the spicy scent
of giant hyssop—
no longer a question
of am I deserving
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
102
Angela Leuck
looking
for tenderness
in a cold world—
leaves of lambs ear
poking through snow
early morning
fallen lotus petals
float on the pond
you vanish
like a dream
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
103
Erik Linzbach
sleeping beside me
on top of the covers
stirring with dreams
long dirty-golden hair
and a wagging tail
meowing
the cat meowing back-
too embarrassed now
to admit to her
I don’t understand
walking in circles
finding a place
to close its eyes—
a dog dreams
the whole universe
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
104
Bob Lucky
years of writing
five lines down—
tanka
spell check still recommends
tank tanker tanks taka tanked
for Sanford Goldstein
incense mingles
with mosquito coils
in the temple—
living in this world
a pre-req to getting out
she believed
the way to my heart
was through my stomach,
but to make a point
she started at the wrong end
addicted
to chocolate—
just one more
one more one more
that’s all
sure
of where I was going
I stopped
to find out
where I was
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
105
Bob Lucky
some days
I’m philosophical
because
I have to be
just to be
like the sun
like the moon and the stars . . .
like an idiot—
there is no comparison
that doesn’t diminish love
do not
speak to me, do not
speak to me
say what you have to say
and I’ll hear what I want
mid-sentence
she wanders off talking
to herself—
it doesn’t really matter
but it was my sentence
after awhile
the news gets old—
the end of the world
is always about to come
but first the weather
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
106
Bob Lucky
too late to read
quick fix Spanish grammar
I fall asleep
translating everything
into the past perfect
dreaming
impervious to
reality—
uncrackable pistachios
pile up between us
so many words
squeezed from the heart
about love—
being long married I know
the heart’s like a toothpaste tube
we were young
and didn’t know the first thing
about anything
so had the habit of saying
exactly how we felt
I love you, my sweet
hypochondriac,
but live in fear
that one day
you may be wrong
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
107
Bob Lucky
lost in thought
I stumble into
a desire
to find myself
not behind this desk
clearing my mind
striving
for nothingness
I fill up
with emptiness
I like you
lying next to me
in bed
lost in a thriller
beneath the sheets
Turning
my back on a
future with you, I wade
through the past like a refugee
from now.
Salsa
down my jacket—
looking out the window
at the new snow, I drown a thought
in beer.
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
108
Bob Lucky
All the Things Left Unsaid
“A line is a dot that went for a walk.”
Paul Klee
darling let me tell you all the things I never said all the things I couldn’t
say all the things I tried to say
tired
you soak in the tub
alone—
with all my baggage
dot dot dot
É
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
109
Terra Martin
evening primrose
spicily scents the night
this clinging desire
so deeply rooted
when you appear
the memory of you
shadows me like a ghost
calling hauntingly
over and over
the moan of the wind
in the sands
of a sifting tide
faint footprints
the last dance
in a new morning
the darting
hummingbird
deeper
deeper into
the flower
the foxy stranger
in the café winks
I smile at everyone else
then my coffee
misses my mouth
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
110
Terra Martin
sudden wind
drums the door
a syncopated beat
of silence
the phone
is this destiny
or merely a dream of
still being in love . . .
sand adrift in summer wind
shush, shush
sinking deeper
deeper beneath
the blankets
my heartache cushioned
on crimson leaves
the rhythm of the rain
of the windshield wipers
over and over
a relentless stream
of apologies
the white-out
leaves a landscape
without shadow
the purity
of love lost
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
111
Terra Martin
the golden key
to the velvet box
lost long ago
love has picked
the lock once more
long tapered fingers
of the twilight sky
embrace the night
will my sunset years
be a glowing showcase
if my mind
was as swift-flying
as the swallow
leaving would be
a graceful flight
the rose
I want you to kiss
moist pink petals
closer, closer
opening, opening
sipping water
from my hands
nothing better
is this how I slip
from your grasp
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
112
Terra Martin
if regret
slowed the falling
magnolia blossoms
my cries would echo
throughout canyons
dewdrops
on the spider’s web
as if made of crystal
the transparent pearls
of your love letter
seaweed tendrils
cover the pond
a hidden depth
yet nevertheless
I fathom your longing
if the taste of water
is as you say wine
to your tongue
let me be the bouquet
that you thirst for
your poem and hers
side by side on the page
I fold my jealousy
into an origami ship
and navigate the stormy sea
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
113
Terra Martin
just as we are
about to make love
I wake up
to the soft wet kisses
of my new puppy
piping your name
on the cake
in creamy swirls
the lacy filigree
of icing, of lingerie
the strips of bark
over the bare branch sway
to and fro like coattails
off to an evening
at the opera
eclipse
a strawberry sundae
or cotton candy. . .
this sunset would delight
any sweet tooth
taking a deep breath
lower and lower
the dentist chair
then from the radio
the william tell overture
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
114
Terra Martin
Left Behind
captured
in a crystal glass
only a monarch
suffocated
with a sigh
the western trillium
torn from the root
and strewn about—
the bruised silence
of the invalid
the stray
by the roadside
wandering
our search for
a place to belong
over the meadow
in the cool twilight
the sparkle
of a firefly
flitting . . .
É
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
115
Francis Masat
café con leche—
the early call
of a Key West rooster
footprints fill with sand
by a beached Cuban raft
fog
settling
and not settling
settling
and not settling
dawn—
I wonder why
I killed a roach
then
carried it outside
beachside
a fish leaves
under an osprey
a small hand
holds a shell
still pond—
side-to-side
leaves race—
no winners
or losers
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
116
Francis Masat
a granddaughter
on her summer vacation
suns by the volley ball game
the tide returns
unwatched
first rose of summer—
I open a letter
from an ex-lover
his name the same
as my son’s
afternoon sun—
milkweed plants nod
and spill their pods
I simply nod
on the warm breeze
Key West Harbor—
building a railway museum
for cruise ship visitors
the local fish house sold out
of hotdogs
last day of summer—
something mysterious
about the shadows
about the gray
in the fin that passes
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
117
Francis Masat
rain-slated roof—
leaves press
against a pane
I will let them in
when they dry
thunder
across the bay—
in a darkened room
I contemplate
no matches
hurricane—
no shutters up
in the cemetery
a canopy flaps
over a fresh grave
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
118
Michael McClintock
from the beach at Capri
I carry a sand grain
away in a sock
done with my looting
of the Romans in Italy
Jimi Hendrix
on the radio
at 6 a.m.—
the sizzle of bacon,
the smell of burnt toast
taking it easy
after scrubbing the floor,
the tiles clean—
yes, freshly mopped
and still a little wet
posted for spring
at the old folks’ home,
new visiting hours—
a fresh coat of gray paint
and all the windows open
alone for a week
the old pleasures return
with some sadness
taking no trouble to dress
or to eat properly
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
119
Michael McClintock
the clock pendulum
stopped ticking . . .
I’ve lost the key,
I don’t know how
to re-wind it
that part of us
that goes into the ground
we walk on—
once upon a time,
fabled in the land of Nod
not knowing
what to say to a friend
who asks
how do I get my kid
out of the basement?
I stay inside and dream
between the books
and the magazines . . .
a summer night
thick with mosquitoes
pushing through
the boughs of the mystery,
I’m getting closer—
what do you
think of that
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
120
Michael McClintock
the drifting boat . . .
it must have nudged bluebells
somewhere upstream—
an evening whippoorwill
and lovers in the rushes
I don’t know
if they’re sad or not,
the warblers gone
far into the woods, singing
only from shaded places
translucent Latin
I crunch, those fresh peppers
Horace and Ovid,
the lies the old boys told
for ruthless poetry
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
121
Jo McInerney
smiling
wedding photographs
the girl
resembles someone
I once knew
when
did we fuse
I’d thought
I’d married you
not drunk your blood
dimples
on a gong . . .
they bruise
those tiny blows
that sound a heart
grandmother’s
jardinière, among the clutter . . .
I wonder
what, if anything, she
would make of my life
nameless birds
racketing outside the window . . .
life
rattling on
despite me
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
122
Jo McInerney
a twist
of bright blue glass
threaded
on silver—a little thing
your last gift
lyrebird
singing with another’s note . . .
the sadness
of friendship
become a sham
yes
I remember
mother
unwrapping new stockings
those filmy fawn veils
head down
eyes on the ground
searching
for childhood’s
lost penny
you gave me
a book of Basho’s words
remarkable
so little
to say so much
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
123
Jo McInerney
I did not
mark your grave
one spot
does not contain
all you were
bell-like
that sweet birdcall
summoning
someone, something
other than me
my calls
remain unanswered
I wonder
do I want you sick
dead or indifferent
Modern English Tanka — Summer 2008
124
Mike Montreuil
a country tune
<