ATLAS POETICA A Journal of World Tanka
Number 29
M. Kei, editor toki, editorial assistant
2017 Keibooks, Perryville, Maryland, USA KEIBOOKS P O Box 516 Perryville, Maryland, USA 21903 AtlasPoetica.org
Atlas Poetica A Journal of World Tanka
Copyright © 2017 by Keibooks
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 EDUCATIONAL USE NOTICE.
Atlas Poetica : A Journal of World Tanka, an organic print and e-journal published at least three times a year. Atlas Poetica is dedicated to publishing and promoting world tanka literature, including tanka, kyoka, gogyoshi, tanka prose, tanka sequences, shaped tanka, sedoka, mondo, cherita, zuihitsu, ryuka, and other variations and innovations in the field of tanka. We do not publish haiku, except as incidental to a tanka collage or other mixed form work.
Atlas Poetica is interested in all verse of high quality, but our preference is for tanka literature that is authentic to the environment and experience of the poet. While we will consider tanka in the classical Japanese style, our preference is for fresh, forward-looking tanka that engages with the world as it is. We are willing to consider experiments and explorations as well as traditional approaches.
In addition to verse, Atlas Poetica publishes articles, essays, reviews, interviews, letters to the editor, etc., related to tanka literature. Tanka in translation from around the world are welcome in the journal.
Published by Keibooks
ISBN-13: 978-1548863692
ISBN-10: 1548863696
Also available for Kindle
AtlasPoetica.org TABLE OF CONTENTS
Editorial Murasame ...... 55 Educational Use Notice ...... 92 Michael H. Lester ...... 55, 57 Introducing the Englyn, M. Kei ...... 5 Matsukaze ...... 55 N. E. Taylor ...... 58 Poetry Patricia Prime ...... 59, 60, 61 ai li ...... 7, 8, 9, 10 Paul Mercken ...... 62 Aju Mukhopadhyay ...... 12 Pat Geyer ...... 63 Alegria Imperial ...... 12 Paweł Markiewicz ...... 64 Anita Virgil ...... 13 Peter Fiore ...... 64 Barbara Curnow ...... 33 Richard St. Clair ...... 64 Bill Albert ...... 14, 15, 16 Robert Henry Poulin ...... 65 Carole Johnson ...... 15 Samantha Sirimanne Hyde ...... 51, 66 Catherine McGrath ...... 33 Sanford Goldstein ...... 66 Charles D. Tarlton ...... 16 Steve Black ...... 67 Chen-ou Liu ...... 27, 28 Tamara K. Walker ...... 69 Chris Cole ...... 29 Tanja Trček ...... 70 Debbie Strange ...... 29, 30 Tim Lenton ...... 71 Don Miller ...... 30 Vladimir Laptenok ...... 71, 72 Don Wentworth ...... 31, 42 Enid Howell ...... 32 Articles Frances Black ...... 50 The Garden of Blooming Flowers: My Experience of Gerry Jacobson ...... 33, 34 Tanka Writing, Pravat Kumar Padhy ...... 72 Giselle Maya ...... 61 Englyn : A Welsh Alternative to Tanka, Richard St. James Tipton ...... 34 Clair ...... 78 Janet Lynn Davis ...... 35 Review: The Way of Tanka by Naomi Beth Joanna Ashwell ...... 42 Wakan, reviewed by Michael Dylan Welch 78 Joy McCall ...16, 30, 31, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, Review: fieldgates, tanka sequences, by Joy McCall, 42, 47, 71, 72 reviewed by Maxianne Berger ...... 84 Julie Bloss Kelsey ...... 43 Review: For Instance, Sweetheart: Forty Years of Love Kate Brown ...... 51 Songs (1970-2010), reviewed by Patricia Kazuaki Wakui ...... 43, 44 Prime ...... 86 Keitha Keyes ...... 44, 45, 46 Lavana Kray ...... 46 Leonard Green ...... 46 Liam Wilkinson ...... 47 Lorne Henry ...... 47 Louisa Howerow ...... 48 Lynda Monahan ...... 48 M. Kei ...... 49 Margaret Van Every ...... 50 Marilyn Humbert ...... 50, 51 Mariko Kitakubo ...... 54 Marshall Bood ...... 54 Maryalicia Post ...... 55
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 3
idea and guide your project to completion. Introducing the Englyn Review previously existing special features on our website, then send us a short email inquiry. Our Englyn is a Welsh four-line poetic form that first ever special feature, ‘25 Romanian Tanka our poets have noticed resembles the Okinawan Poets in Romanian and English’ has been our ryuka, itself an offshoot of the Japanese tanka. most frequently read special feature even eight The englyn is a unique form with no connection years after it was first published. By contrast, to the Japanese, so we will not be adding it to the ‘The Garage, Not the Garden,’ had the largest list of forms regularly publish, but we do believe number of submissions. We are always interested that it will be of interest to our readers. Richard in special features that explore different national St Clair provides an introduction to the Welsh traditions of tanka, ryuka, sedoka, and cherita, as englyn, along with examples of his own work. well as different topics and approaches. At the Readers and poets interested in seeing more are time this is published, our most recent special advised to seek out the journal Englyn edited by features on humor and arthropods (insects and Liam Wilkinson. arachnids) have recently been published, or will In this issue we continue to see a keen be shortly. Special features are published on an interest in the cherita sparked by our online irregular basis as we receive proposals and can fit special feature edited by ai li, and the vast the work in around our regular schedule. amount of cherita published in volume 27 of Elsewhere in this issue you will find our usual Atlas Poetica. The cherita, like the cinquain, assortment of tanka, ryuka, cherita, tanka prose, originally an East-West hybrid, appears to have and tanka sequences. Our first Russian tanka naturalized itself to the English language and is appear in this issue, as well as items in French, here to stay. A new journal devoted to cherita, Dutch, and Malay. (Please remember that called simply cherita, edited by ai li and Larry translators should always be credited and receive Kimmel, has published its second issue as an a byline.) online flipbook. As always, our poets are endlessly inventive. We have also published a variety of non- Joy McCall finds tanka poetry in the King James fiction articles in this issue, including book Bible, while Gerry Jacobson, Barbara Curnow, reviews, the aforementioned article on englyn, and Catherine McGrath have given us a and a personal retrospective of tanka writing by collaborative cherita. The team of Marilyn Pravat Kumar Padhy. ATPO publishes all sorts of Humbert, Samantha Sirimanne Hyde, and Kate articles written from various perspectives of Brown share collaborative tanka prose. Peter different lengths and complexity levels. Fiore shares another of his prose tanka poems We encourage anyone to share their thoughts (which is not the same as a tanka prose) while Bill about tanka and related poetry in a non-fiction Albert critiques the Jerry Lewis telethons. As I article. All articles must have citations, but if have always said, “Everything is tanka.” you’re inexperienced, we can guide you through proper organization and formatting. Articles ~K~ 500 – 5000 words in length can be sent over the transom, but inquire first regarding articles M. Kei outside that length. We’re a large format journal, Editor, Atlas Poetica so we love to publish in-depth articles that are carefully researched, but we also publish short Crepuscular Rays. opinion pieces as well, sometimes as letters to the editor, and sometimes as more formal articles. Cover Image courtesy of Earth Observatory, NASA. Our special features are also open to guest
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 5
he calls you summer madness in the heat of the day ai li and you can hear him sweating snake ~Long Boat Key, Florida, USA i see one out of the corner of my eye i love you sunbathing i love you not i love your c_ _ k ~Acapulco, Mexico, 1976 but not what you do with it time to lose control ~Knightsbridge, London, England vintage champagne drunk i take off one earring twilight to let you i was abandoned nibble my ear lobe in empty space we both worked ~Holland Park, London, England, 1974 so hard to furnish you tell her that you love her small leaves i’m standing in the wings in heavy rain without any wings on i am one of you to take off without armour from the precipice without protection
~Hampstead, London, England ~Hampstead, London, England up with dew year round roses a new day they give you scent the light and is all mine the colours until you wake of deception
~Norfolk, England ~London, England
at sunset your sea eating blood oranges and my sky passing you segments we’re poles apart mouth except when to mouth we make love ~Essex-Suffolk border, England
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 7 isinglass bibik* my thoughts how old are clear tonight is our neighbour i take quartz the woman to bed with eleven toes ?
~Belsize Park, London, England * bibik is the straits chinese peranakan word for an older woman or aunt i remember your kiss kam siah lah* auntie i said there were fireflies after she arrives with her homemade that night 5-spice sausages and fragrant coconut rice marrying us she beams and pats the perspiration under starlight on her forehead with a swiss voile handkerchief
~Singapore & England *kam siah is thank you in the hokkien dialect which was largely spoken by the Peranakans and lah usually means that is it! believe me
selamat tahun baru* we are all in red kneeling before our ancestors and our elders serving them red date tea infused the lost world of the peranakans with shards of sugared winter gourd for the straits chinese of malaya and *selamat tahun baru is a happy new year greeting in malay and used by the peranakan as a greeting for their chinese new year singapore ai li my aunts are busy in the kitchen making kueh kueh chuchi mulut* birthday cake too many candles the sultan is coming to tea this afternoon spoiling the dark and grandfather is being honoured the first slice is for you for the strength of his compassion and you wish yourself * kueh kueh chuchi mulut in malay means a variety of peranakan panjang umur* nyonya cake made with ground rice, coconut milk and screwpine leaves, to clean and refresh the mouth and palate * panjang umur is long life in malay ~East Coast of Old Malaya a night of lanterns gracing the garden the joget* dancers are here the beca taking me to see in shapely kebaya* and undulating sarongs an old colonial mansion the night is much warmer he stops to fan himself with his topi with their dance moves and mutters under his breath phai miah* * the joget is a malay dance and the kebaya is a straits chinese woman’s rubia blouse with ornate hemmed embroidery worn with a sarong
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 8 * beca is the malay word for trishaw, topi is the malay london rain word for a colonial khaki coloured helmet and phai miah is you hail hokkien for a bad life a black cab for ~George Town, Penang, Malaysia the experience
~Shaftesbury Avenue, London, England mother’s tua har* wardrobe of black, indigo, pale blue sarongs and plain tops are starched, ready for her piety and penance the colour of night for the first month it has been years no jewellery, no make-up, no perms and sets since we last spoke * tua har is the hokkien word for the mourning period we nod in passing ~East Coast of Old Malaya ~Cromer, Norfolk, England
late night diner the heavily made-up blonde waitress with a breathless voice tanka for the memories ~Miami, Florida, USA, 1976 ai li
i walk down the road i pose with my outfit becoming edwardian an orangutan and there are horses either he needs drinking from a bath long water troughs or i do ~Belsize Park, London, 1994 ~Singapore Zoo, Singapore, 1980s soldiers i find on recreation leave fossils and ammonites in the far east in the tilled field used condoms this must have been in the back alleys la mer then ~Taipei, Taiwan, 1968 ~Essex, England, 1980s
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 9 you arrive by seaplane eastern promise just before sunset garlands ai li welcome you
~Ceylon Tea Trails, Dickoya, Sri Lanka, 2016 semangat of the spirit in malay through heavy heavy rain my hunger hanging prayer flags for your chicken soup where is the breeze ? the warm friendly kitchen do we need more for the gods to hear us ? where there are no strangers i tear up my scarf and hang indigo ~Belsize Park, London, England, 1990s ~Sri Lanka dusk watching the golden girls in old age p’ang chui where the perfumed in hokkien is everyone? my tooth is hurting again ~Belsize Park, London, England you give me cloves making pain exotic it starts to rain and i’m taking shelter ~Essex, England, 1980s under the awning of a hat shop i can hear gene kelly singing cha’an ~Frinton-on-Sea, Essex, England, 1980s a touch of zen
10 days stirring sugar of rain into my tea cup i ask sweetening the sky for what’s left another song of afternoon ~East Coast of Old Malaya ~Essex-Suffolk border, England, 1980s
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 10 mulia maranasati the sacred in malay remember death in pali at dawn wind and rain walking in corn fields the phoenix hairpin i hear a new sits in the dark beginning with no head of hair in me to rise from
~Iowa, USA, 1976 ~Southeast China, 2009 sayang of love in malay ai li is a Straits Chinese haiku and tanka poet who lives in London and Singapore. She writes about Life, Love and Loss bringing healing and i flirt with you prayer to her poems. Besides being the founding editor and publisher of still, moving into breath and dew online and the creator of cherita, she under my autumn sun is an evidential spiritualist medium, an urban photographer, and a the lines on my face surrealist collage painter. Find her essence in the quiet of her inner are softer here rooms at:
~Heydon, Norfolk, England kenang-kenangan of remembrance in malay the colours of an evening spent without you the carnival on the heath at closing time one light bulb dies after the other
~Hampstead Heath, London, 1970s cenderamata a keepsake in malay your ashes are kept in the temple but no one has been to talk to you in years
~Tumpat, east coast of Malaya, 1950s
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 11 Aju Mukhopadhyay cherita
Alegria Imperial We crossed paths many times before never it occurred until today that you’re habitat my life’s core human scent in moon rise wishing to see the abounding beauty our vows prowling I came across ugly faces among leaves but settled for a bed in their ugliness goats descending still we rage along mountain path shepherd ahead — even if scarred jingling bells ring the air even if salved in the dusk piercing each other through the darkness after crossing in dreams innumerable bridges over the rivers braving storms on the way he reached life’s edge can it be true
falling leaves a flock of parakeets contort in agony? flew away fast, leaving a green feather sliding — in our warm bed gift from a talking about trees feathered friend the truth about us a wall gecko crawls concentrating; her orangey hair the cockroach suddenly why do fumes from oils flies out of its reach on his canvas
~India cloud my vision of washing away my candle limbs?
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 12 I make tea What a Delight It Is this last evening of petitions Anita Virgil as if the gods within me need to peek A tanka series based on Tachibana Akemi from without (1812 – 1868) who broke from the traditional subject matter for tanka to write poems on topics beyond those limitations. Even household minutia. storm warning What a delight it is what about When, skimming through the pages this abandoned doll Of a book, I discover A man written of there crisscrossing Who is just like me. a stream of autumn leaves? what a delight it is to be on a freezing morning greeted by open daffodils & carpets of blue vinca we do try at the woods’ edge to strain storm dregs what a delight it is untying when nothing’s planned & I wake to swirling snow from a wire mesh stay in bed shreds in the wind and read our old vows what a delight it is a thaw in almost-spring when in her telling the pond fish surface to beg anew for food a whiplash brushes cheeks what a delight it is alone still the calmness in the dark . . . of many voices how one little waterfall in the fall sounds louder
~Vancouver, Canada what a delight it is speaking aloud “Well hello!” to the first Alegria Imperial writes all forms of Japanese short poetry and some narcissus bloom mainstream poems. Formerly a journalist in Manila, she now lives in Vancouver, BC, Canada. open in cold sunlight
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 13 what a delight it is without any effort on my part Telethon to see each year my daffodils, vinca and squill Bill Albert multiplied what a delight it is The comedian, Jerry Lewis hosted a telethon the spring sky in aid of muscular dystrophy in the USA from after night rain 1966 until 2011. His primary fundraising ploy sparkles was to use disabled children, so-called “Jerry’s with clean stars kids,” in order to evoke pity and open wallets. This was very successful, and over the years he what a delight it is raised upwards of $2 billion to fund research into late night on the porch a cure. In the process, he belittled and demeaned munching cold cereal disabled people. Further, very little of the money by the light raised went to support people with muscular of fireflies dystrophy. When faced with these criticisms, coming in large part from his ex-kids, Lewis said, what a delight it is “Fuck them.” As of 2017, about 50 years since to be alone & wander the telethon began, no cure has been developed. among my thoughts uninterrupted blue-belly lizard save by birdsong impaled on ocotillo bleached skulls what a delight it is without pity, the desert chomping celery with grandson displays its victims who leans his head to mine & asks: Jerry Lewis Do you hear my listenings? ninety one and still weeps with pity for what a delight it is “his telethon kids” before the rain begins victims on display to watch rabbit twitch down his supper of lawn then wash his face the dry arroyo hunch and rest a while flash flood waters long dormant seeds what a delight it is colours erupt suddenly at day’s end desert carpet blooms lifting the pot lid to the aroma of “Jerry’s kids” grow just right hollowed out in black and white ~Forest, Virginia, USA painting their lives anew in bright colours
Google “Anita Virgil “and “Anita Virgil Images.” ~Norwich, UK
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 14 I suck down sticks and stones poor crippled me Bill Albert and become poor crippled me sticks and stones waves break may break my bones on the beach but names churning will cut quiet sands far more deeply foaming white they will carve baby turtles out whole worlds headlong dash to the sea’s safe embrace that stain my heart — pitiless gulls hover dry desert wildflowers screaming death waiting for the rain ~Norwich, UK bright painted bird tail feathers flash now Bill Albert is a novelist, wheelchair user and disability rights in the sun activist living in Norwich. He grew up in the California desert in the mobbed by clouds 1950s. He is one of “Jerry’s ex-kids”.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 15 bound for glory Proust’s Combray: Part One, Remembrance of Things Past Bill Albert & Joy McCall Charles D. Tarlton wheelchair bound for glory Woody Guthrie sings out the body beautiful Phantasmagoria song of myself Le toit de tuile faisait dans la mare, que le I rest my hand soleil rendait de nouveau réfléchissante, une where my leg stops marbrure rose, à laquelle je n’avais encore jamais sudden at the knee — fait attention. Et voyant sur l’eau et à la face du bent fingers loving mur un pâle sourire répondre au sourire du ciel, old familiar scars je m’écriai dans mon enthousiasme en brandissant mon parapluie refermé: «Zut, zut, the black dog crept in zut, zut.» paws silently dripping slowly poisoned wine In the pond, reflective again under the sun, I taste the unfamiliar the tile roof made a pink marbling to which I had rawness of old scars never before given any attention. And seeing on the water and on the face of the wall a pale smile once it was wild Shuck answering the smile of the sky, I cried out to panting door to door myself in my enthusiasm, brandishing my furled red-eyed in the night umbrella: “Damn, damn, damn, damn.” now it’s a dark mood ~Proust (Lydia Davis, translator) howling at the moon Daydream, hallucination, imagination, ~Norwich, England mystical vision, chimera — phantasmagoria. We are unconsciously taking in the valley view before us when, almost without physical sensation, our Bill Albert is a novelist, wheelchair user and disability rights activist vision shifts and what was before goes behind, living in Norwich. He taught economics and history at the University of what was clear becomes obscure. The distant East Anglia before retiring in 1992. This is his first outing as a poet. hills, visible now in the cool air, seem to move He was introduced to this venture by the encouragement of Joy McCall.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 16 then the miracle formless and unrecognized. A seduction where of reflecting reflections nothing can go wrong, no reluctance, no in the smiles awkwardness, no mistakes. A dream where all is of the water, wall, and sky warmth, welcome, and beauty. Where the lover is making ecstasy among the very best.
become abruptly dark illusive single syllabled descants feminine he once knew against the veil but cannot now remember though we can see through it erasing the line separates us from the other between waking and the dream
a day sky smiled an onanistic veil the water against the wall woven of cobbled mannequins a smile from the stones an adolescent makes you want to just fall with secrets down and cry between the truth and lying
dreamy girls Masturbari made from anticipation just the same as Quelquefois, comme Eve naquit d’une côte pleasure. Desire d’Adam, une femme naissait pendant mon made up as fast as he can sommeil d’une fausse position de ma cuisse. Formée du plaisir que j’étais sur le point de arising in his mind goûter, je m’imaginais que c’était elle qui me self-stimulations l’offrait. Mon corps qui sentait dans le sien ma made into a real woman propre chaleur voulait s’y rejoindre, je he longed m’éveillais . . . Si, comme il arrivait quelquefois, to insinuate himself elle avait les traits d’une femme que j’avais connue dans la vie, j’allais me donner tout entier à ce but: la retrouver . . . Interpretation
Sometimes, as Eve was born from one of Elle [sa mère] retrouvait pour les [les phrases Adam’s ribs, a woman was born during my sleep de George Sand] attaquer dans le ton qu’il faut, from a cramped position of my thigh. Formed l’accent cordial qui leur préexiste et les dicta, from the pleasure I was on the point of enjoying, mais que les mots n’indiquent pas; grâce à lui elle she, I imagined, was the one offering it to me. My amortissait au passage toute crudité dans les body, which felt in hers my own warmth, would temps des verbes, donnait à l’imparfait et au try to find itself inside her, I would wake up . . . . passé défini la douceur qu’il y a dans la bonté, la If, as sometimes happened, she had the features mélancolie qu’il y a dans la tendresse, dirigeait la of a woman I had known in life, I would devote phrase qui finissait vers celle qui allait myself entirely to this end: to finding her again. commencer, tantôt pressant, tantôt ralentissant la ~Proust (Lydia Davis, translator) marche des syllabes pour les faire entrer, quoique leurs quantités fussent différentes, dans un Same as any adolescent boy! How, when all rythme uniforme, elle insufflait à cette prose si alone, one becomes more than just the one, commune une sorte de vie sentimentale et inviting the phantom girl in, well-formed but continue.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 17 She [his mother] found, to attack them Palingenesis [George Sand’s sentences] in the necessary tone, the warm inflection that preexists them and that Je trouve très raisonnable la croyance celtique dictated them, but that the words do not indicate; que les âmes de ceux que nous avons perdus sont with this inflection she softened as she went along captives dans quelque être inférieur, dans une any crudeness in the tenses of the verbs, gave the bête, un végétal, une chose inanimée, perdues en imperfect and the past historic the sweetness that effet pour nous jusqu’au jour, qui pour beaucoup lies in goodness, the melancholy that lies in ne vient jamais, où nous nous trouvons passer tenderness, directed the sentence that was ending près de l’arbre, entrer en possession de l’objet qui toward the one that was about to begin, est leur prison. Alors elles tressaillent, nous sometimes hurrying, sometimes slowing down the appellent, et sitôt que nous les avons reconnues, pace of the syllables so as to bring them, though l’enchantement est brisé. Délivrées par nous, elles their quantities were different, into one uniform ont vaincu la mort et reviennent vivre avec nous. rhythm, she breathed into this very common prose a sort of continuous emotional life. “I find the Celtic belief very reasonable, that ~Proust (Lydia Davis, translator) the souls of those we have lost are held captive in some inferior creature, in an animal, in a plant, Lifts the words right off the page, works a in some inanimate object, effectively lost to us kind of magic, just the way the writer might have until the day, which for many never comes, when dreamed how it sounds. Understanding now the we happen to pass close to the tree, come into reader enters the writer’s mind, hears the words possession of the object that is their prison. Then as the author heard them, breathes life into them, they quiver, they call out to us, and as soon as we slow when things slow down, softly, quick, have recognized them, the spell is broken. rhythmic, rough as the sense demands. And Delivered by us, they have overcome death and passes them on. they return to live with us.” ~Proust (Lydia Davis, translator) words once depressed within those written sentences In a world where death is everywhere we she later dramatized have invented non-death in the form of the soul; let the music mount in them when our bodies have perished, we do not. What made them prance to do, then, with all these loose, wandering, the reader dreams bodiless souls? Some think they are transported what the writer had dreamt immediately to heaven or hell where they will then sings it better eventually be reunited with their flesh. At times, making delicate repairs we have believed that disembodied souls tight tiny pirouettes wandered the universe forever on their own, haunting graveyards and darkened alleys. Who where clumsier truths thought they’d find a home in a bird, a squirrel, a are taught their nicer manners rose, or a golden ring? reaching high notes where the grammar plunges rising out of my corpse down into the past me the rat twitches his nose why not a dancer and scurries under foot landing on the instant she looking around for a friend rises — entrechat? changing countenance fast for slow for fast
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 18 here in my new home in that glassy moment of bulging muscle and broken nose of self-consciousness I lean closer awkwardly to the mirror hoping and looking around to recognize myself he apologized
he was coming for dinner with a secret and we waited but widely known gesture anxiously. Would we know him turning aside now? I mean, he’s a whole he waved the doves away new person. with his hand
no one seems to know me and smiled in that boyish but I can understand embarrassed how could they recognize but as baffled way my new metrics as everyone else was thinking the distance between my eyes? how they felt
he pulled his world Old M. Swann in close gave all his attention Brusquement le souvenir de sa femme morte to trivia without once lui revint, et trouvant sans doute trop compliqué looking up de chercher comment il avait pu à un pareil moment se laisser aller à un mouvement de joie, il se contenta, par un geste qui lui était familier Asking for the Time chaque fois qu’une question ardue se présentait à son esprit, de passer la main sur son front, Je me demandais quelle heure il pouvait être; d’essuyer ses yeux et les verres de son lorgnon. j’entendais le sifflement des trains qui, plus ou moins éloigné, comme le chant d’un oiseau dans Suddenly the memory of his dead wife came une forêt, relevant les distances, me décrivait back to him and, no doubt feeling it would be too l’étendue de la campagne déserte où le voyageur complicated to try to understand how he could se hâte vers la station prochaine; et le petit have yielded to an impulse of happiness at such a chemin qu’il suit va être gravé dans son souvenir time, he confined himself, in a habitual gesture of par l’excitation qu’il doit à des lieux nouveaux, à his whenever a difficult question came into his des actes inaccoutumés, à la causerie récente et mind, to passing his hand over his forehead, aux adieux sous la lampe étrangère qui le suivent wiping his eyes and the lenses of his lorgnon. encore dans le silence de la nuit, à la douceur ~Proust (Lydia Davis, translator) prochaine du retour.
I saw a National Geographic film about a female I would ask myself what time it might be; I leopard (or it might have been a jaguar) that had could hear the whistling of the trains which, two cubs in the wild someplace. She raised them, remote or nearby, like the singing of a bird in a taught them to fight and hunt, and as they grew forest, plotting the distances, described to me the older, she abandoned them. The two continue extent of the deserted countryside where the hunting together, but then they get separated and traveler hastens toward the nearest station; and never look back. This teaches, I think, that we are the little road he is following will be engraved on always on our own. his memory by the excitement he owes to new
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 19 places, to unaccustomed activities, to the recent As I Try to Recollect conversation and the farewells under the unfamiliar lamp that follow him still through the Mais, quand d’un passé ancien rien ne silence of the night, to the imminent sweetness of subsiste, après la mort des êtres, après la his return. destruction des choses, seules, plus frêles mais ~Proust (Lydia Davis, translator) plus vivaces, plus immatérielles, plus persistantes, plus fidèles, l’odeur et la saveur restent encore Even as I was leaving I could see myself longtemps, comme des âmes, à se rappeler, à returning. Each step, each mile of my departure attendre, à espérer, sur la ruine de tout le reste, à was retraced as I imagined coming back. I porter sans fléchir, sur leur gouttelette presque watched the woods roll up in the window, go past, impalpable, l’édifice immense du souvenir. and then recede; and I saw, from the other side of the train, the meadows give way again to woods, But, when nothing subsists of an old past, and then the little station where I got off and on, after the death of people, after the destruction of filled with anticipation for a holiday already things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more spent. The cab driver was surprised to see me immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell back so soon. and taste still remain for a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, upon the ruins of things come to an end all the rest, bearing without giving way, on their turning us around almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice remembered anticipations of memory. in the emptiness ~Proust (Lydia Davis, translator) of a broken china cup So, even without calendars or clocks we could watch the lightning still discern the irrevocable passing of time in the then listen for the thunder ruins of houses and walls, in graves and counting on your fingers tombstones. But, there is something of the past to guess the distance that persists beyond death, and is not merely in the empty passing seconds remembered but re-experienced — the senses. A smell, like mildew in a rented house, or the taste reliving moments of snow can drag the whole the past into the of pain and embarrassment present. over and over again in your head. Hearing yourself I know this because stumble time after time I recently tasted Spanish rice like they’d served at school I cannot bring pink and redolent again what’s already gone of cooked tomatoes but I can imagine its not yet happening after my mother anticipate what’s past had died her scent remained in dresser drawers, her cheap perfume clinging to everything
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 20 remembering summer tree that had been “in color” and those that had at Corona del Mar not — showed me that these petals were in fact unable to escape the same ones that, before filling the pharmacy the scent of Sea and Ski bag with flowers, had embalmed the spring on everyone evenings. That candle-pink flame was their color still, but half doused and drowsing in the after the fire was out diminished life that was theirs now, and that is a the house was a charred sort of twilight of flowers. Soon my aunt would velvet rubble be able to dip into the boiling infusion, of which where whiffs of smoke she savored the taste of dead leaf or faded flower, hovered, reluctant to leave a small madeleine, a piece of which she would hold out to me when it had sufficiently softened.
Taking Tea Transformations are the rule; naturally, the seeds fall and grow, the trees are cut and sawed or Et chaque caractère nouveau n’y étant que la burned, the pig slaughtered and hung up, métamorphose d’un caractère ancien, dans de eviscerated, cut into roasts and chops, fruit like petites boules grises je reconnaissais les boutons oranges, apples, and pears fall to the ground, they verts qui ne sont pas venus à terme; mais surtout all fall to the ground, rot away to free and fertilize l’éclat rose, lunaire et doux qui faisait se détacher the seeds, the old tree fails, too few blossoms les fleurs dans la forêt fragile des tiges où elles come and the leaves diminish, so we bulldoze étaient suspendues comme de petites roses d’or them to make way for new ones, thin and wispy, — signe, comme la lueur qui révèle encore sur planted inside their cylinders of wire, the wood une muraille la place d’une fresque effacée, de la and plaster walls eventually wear and rot despite différence entre les parties de l’arbre qui avaient a century of paint, and something (no one knows été «en couleur» et celles qui ne l’avaient pas été that it is) breaks out the windows in every — me montrait que ces pétales étaient bien ceux abandoned building. The rains wash the past qui avant de fleurir le sac de pharmacie avaient away. embaumé les soirs de printemps. Cette flamme rose de cierge, c’était leur couleur encore, mais à surrounding the orange demi éteinte et assoupie dans cette vie diminuée trees behind our back fence qu’était la leur maintenant et qui est comme le a thick sugar-air crépuscule des fleurs. Bientôt ma tante pouvait pouring from the blossoms tremper dans l’infusion bouillante dont elle a suffocating of ecstasy savourait le goût de feuille morte ou de fleur fanée une petite madeleine dont elle me tendait what we make of things un morceau quand il était suffisamment amolli. the sawed and planed trunk of a fir tree And since here, each new characteristic was nailed up to frame a house only the metamorphosis of an old characteristic, white pickets in the fence in some little gray balls I recognized the green buds that had not come to their term; but we drag grasses across especially the pink luster, lunar and soft, that from their natural sanctuary made the flowers stand out amid the fragile forest into our needs of stems where they were suspended like little mowing, raking them into windrows gold roses — a sign, like the glow on a wall that thrashing the seeds for bread still reveals the location of a fresco that has worn away, of the difference between the parts of the
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 21 can you recognize where the angels the boy there in the old man’s blowing softly their sweet looser jowls breath, the earth the moister eyes, the gray was rounded, the mountains the darkening wrinkles and the aromatic deserts
rounded stones Abrasion in the dry mountain stream bed, where they tumbled Son vieux porche par lequel nous entrions, long ago and left still now noir, grêlé comme une écumoire, était dévié et waiting to be washed profondément creusé aux angles (de même que le bénitier où il nous conduisait) comme si le doux and then the sand effleurement des mantes des paysannes entrant à on beaches all around the world l’église et de leurs doigts timides prenant de l’eau incomprehensible bénite, pouvait, répété pendant des siècles, in the numbers of grains acquérir une force destructive, infléchir la pierre ground down by the wind et l’entailler de sillons comme en trace la roue des carrioles dans la borne contre laquelle elle bute tous les jours. Chemin de Fer
The old porch by which we entered, black, On reconnaissait le clocher de Saint-Hilaire pocked like a skimming ladle, was uneven and de bien loin, inscrivant sa figure inoubliable à deeply hollowed at the edges (like the font to l’horizon où Combray n’apparaissait pas encore; which it led us), as if the gentle brushing of the quand du train qui, la semaine de Pâques, nous countrywomen’s cloaks as they entered the amenait de Paris, mon père l’apercevait qui filait church and of their timid fingers taking holy tour à tour sur tous les sillons du ciel, faisant water could, repeated over centuries, acquire a courir en tous sens son petit coq de fer, il nous destructive force, bend the stone and carve it with disait: «Allons, prenez les couvertures, on est furrows like those traced by the wheel of a cart in arrivé.» a boundary stone which it knocks against every day. One could recognize the steeple of Saint- Hilaire from quite far off inscribing its There is a dimension where everything unforgettable form on the horizon where happens small and slow, where the beating of a Combray had not yet appeared; when from the butterfly’s wings brings on the hurricane, and the train which, in Easter week, was bringing us from slow drip-dripping of water can wear down Paris, my father caught sight of it slipping by stone, build stalagmites, and drive prisoners mad. turns over all the furrows of the sky and sending Over time, a grain at a time, the mountains will its little iron weathercock running in all wear down, the sea gnaws the rocks along the directions, he would say to us: “Come, gather up coast, spitting back the sand, the earth’s orbit the rugs, we’re here.” collapses bit by bit, and fish grow legs and walk upon the earth. That’s the world we live in. I have never been bored on a train. A train today partly transports me back to those first we are the flash youthful rides, the rhythmic clack of wheels of a red-hot second in the long hitting the space between sections of track, the view of things gentle rolling back and forth in the car, and the somewhere on the slow path smell of metal. Every so often, the train slowed from protozoa to Ubermensch
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 22 and entered a station, and stopped. Hand trucks supplice du coucher, elle m’était devenue would rush back and forth, new people worked supportable. their way down the aisle looking for seats, everyone was looking around. Then the trains They had indeed hit upon the idea, to started up again until the fields and houses and distract me on the evenings when they found me trees that were close are racing by, but those in looking too unhappy, of giving me a magic the distance remain quite still. lantern, which, while awaiting the dinner hour, they would set on top of my lamp; and, after the between practical fashion of the first architects and master glaziers and romantic of the Gothic age, it replaced the opacity of the lies memory. A dancing walls with impalpable iridescences, supernatural steeple, an everyday multicolored apparitions, where legends were father, both remembered depicted as in a wavering, momentary stained- glass window. But my sadness was only increased the man casting by this since the mere change in lighting back for thoughts of the boy destroyed the familiarity which my bedroom had must mainly make them up acquired for me and which, except for the the broad basket torment of going to bed, had made it tolerable to of memories a jumble me.
everyone has seen Layers of colored light, a quick liquid church steeples in the distance fantasia of castles and mountains, knights in peeking over the trees armor saving damsels, a hero upon his horse my brother could name before the citadel, long, thin banners of red and each one’s denomination blue coiling in the wind. Bright dreams spread across drab, flat walls and then, voilà, watch on the little train elaborate graffiti and murals displace in the mind’s that runs down to St. Ives eye the ghetto, the freeway ramp, the railroad car, the sea is always the derelict factory’s crumbling bricks and broken in sight. Leeward the hills windows, spray paint out and into the world. An an occasional town endless parade of stories, theories, emotions, design, and oh, how the bourgeoisie whine and cry they have been defaced; move over for some Lanterne de Peur art.
On avait bien inventé, pour me distraire les children with flashlights soirs où on me trouvait l’air trop malheureux, de playing me donner une lanterne magique, dont, en games in the yard after dark attendant l’heure du dîner, on coiffait ma lampe; beams of light glint and flash et, à l’instar des premiers architectes et maîtres among the black shadows verriers de l’âge gothique, elle substituait à l’opacité des murs d’impalpables irisations, de in summers surnaturelles apparitions multicolores, où des we were often sent to bed légendes étaient dépeintes comme dans un vitrail in broad daylight vacillant et momentané. Mais ma tristesse n’en the window shades golden était qu’accrue, parce que rien que le luminous in the sun changement d’éclairage détruisait l’habitude que j’avais de ma chambre et grâce à quoi, sauf le
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 23 in the waning light rising from a clump of leafy trees, and, at a still of a soft summer evening greater distance, with the sun now bright on the my mother would call ivory spire, we say, “Minerva emerges from the us in to bathe and get ready clouds.” to go to bed subtleties of distance and we’d lament in the eye the gross injustice of the thing incite imagination our day loped off we see corn waving in the wind like a chicken’s head and think of readers in a queue strangled in mid leap the pink brassieres of Brobdingnagian women Paris-Rome were like sand dunes in the Sahara, rolling over Même à Paris, dans un des quartiers les plus undulating laids de la ville, je sais un fenêtre où on voit après un premier, un second et même un troisième plan driving across Holland fait des toits amoncelés de plusieurs rues, une in the darkness cloche violette, parfois rougeâtre, parfois aussi, the lights of refineries dans les plus nobles «épreuves» qu’en tire outside Rotterdam l’atmosphère, d’un noir décanté de cendres, entrechat flames in the night laquelle n’est autre que le dôme Saint-Augustin et qui donne à cette vue de Paris le caractère de we hung a beautiful certaines vues de Rome par Piranesi. Diebenkorn in the ramshackle room Even in Paris, in one of the ugliest parts of and the room gathered itself the city, I know a window from which you can into a self-portrait see, beyond a foreground, middle ground, and even third ground composed of the piled-up roofs of several streets, a violet bell, sometimes Chrysopoeia ruddy, sometimes also, in the noblest “proofs” of it printed by the atmosphere, a decanted cindery . . . moi qui connaissais sa réserve et sa black, which is in fact the dome of Saint- froideur, j’étais gêné, comme par une Augustin and which gives this view of Paris the indélicatesse qu’il aurait commise, de cette character of certain views of Rome by Piranesi. inégalité entre la reconnaissance excessive qui lui était accordée et son amabilité insuffisante. Distance is the heart of metaphor. It is in the distance between familiar features of a known I, who knew his reserve and his coldness, was thing and the similar but blurred, simplified, and embarrassed, as by an indelicacy he had unfamiliar features of something different that committed, by this disparity between the makes possible a comparison, and lets us achieve excessive gratitude that was bestowed on it and our “foul rag and bone shop of the heart.” Up his insufficient cordiality. close, the single chalk-white steeple of the Congregational Meeting House is only that, but I listened impatiently. The speaker at the in the near-distance it might be an arrow aimed podium was jejune to the point of boredom. His at heaven. As we move farther away, the arrow examples were strained and his delivery becomes a spear, the spear, perhaps, of a warrior unsophisticated. It was as if the board had
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 24 chosen someone right off the street to give this piety and hope crucial address. I (or someone of equal forever unfulfilled experience) ought to have been up there; this beauty poised child-like new comer was a totally inappropriate like frozen cataracts choice. Finally, the talk was over, but, then, to my full of potential surprise everyone was standing and applauding. Of course, I stood up then, clapping, and I shook beautiful girls his hand enthusiastically as he walked past me on wrap crudity in the silk the way back to his table. of beautiful dreams lift what’s thick and heavy we are pitiless up into the clouds in judgment, our opinions are like clubs Comme celle-ci, dans le fumoir où mon and with our hands hanging near oncle était en vareuse pour la recevoir, répandait the ground we drag them in son corps si doux, sa robe de soie rose, ses perles, l’élégance qui émane de l’amitié d’un grand-duc, he was dainty de même elle avait pris quelque propos I thought, his opinions insignifiant de mon père, elle l’avait travaillé avec divined délicatesse, lui avait donné un tour, une his head on an upturned palm appellation précieuse et y enchâssant un de ses his cuffs of ironed lace regards d’une si belle eau, nuancé d’humilité et de gratitude, elle le rendait changé en un bijou Il m’a semblé plus tard que c’était un des artiste, en quelque chose de «tout à fait exquis». côtés touchants du rôle de ces femmes oisives et studieuses qu’elles consacrent leur générosité, Just as this one, in the smoking room where leur talent, un rêve disponible de beauté my uncle was wearing his plain jacket to receive sentimentale — car, comme les artistes, elles ne le her, generously diffused her soft and sweet body, réalisent pas, ne le font pas entrer dans les cadres her dress of pink silk, her pearls, the elegance de l’existence commune — et un or qui leur that emanates from the friendship of a grand coûte peu, à enrichir d’un sertissage précieux et duke, so in the same way she had taken some fin la vie fruste et mal dégrossie des hommes. insignificant remark of my father’s, had worked it delicately, turned it, given it a precious It seemed to me later that it was one of the appellation, and enchasing it with one of her touching aspects of the role of these idle and glances of the finest water, tinged with humility studious women that they devote their generosity, and gratitude, had given it back changed into an their talent, a free-floating dream of beauty in artistic jewel, into something “completely love — for, like artists, they do not carry it to exquisite.” fruition, do not bring it into the framework of a shared existence — and a gold that costs them Beauty floats on the polluted river in the little, to enrich with a precious and refined setting form of perfect white Daysailers etching their the rough and ill-polished lives of men. crosshatch in the current. The sun and sky are mirrored in the water’s surface and sparkle and “Oh, he really knows better than that,” the glow, deceptively like silk, perhaps, or diamonds. Puerto Rican mother was telling the school The river’s filth slogs along underneath killing principal, “he’s been raised properly. I don’t know eels and sturgeon out of sight, but the boats what got into him.” What could the man say? dance lightly in the sunlight, making a kind of There she was, her heart tossed out on the desk, music. her decency a palpable thing.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 25 “Ignore them, child” it’s not really the teacher said achievement “you just sit there doing the morally best thing looking pretty if it’s something you’d do they’ll come to understand” in any event
is it like a sugar is it sacrilege coating you put on hard to burn and deface truths? Not really someone else’s church a lie so much as a mirror if you don’t believe a word curved for pleasure of what they preach?
Les sadiques de l’espèce de Mlle Vinteuil sont des êtres si purement sentimentaux, si Controlling Your Emotions naturellement vertueux que même le plaisir sensuel leur paraît quelque chose de mauvais, le Une sadique comme elle est l’artiste du mal, privilège des méchants. Et quand ils se concèdent ce qu’une créature entièrement mauvaise ne à eux-mêmes de s’y livrer un moment, c’est dans pourrait être car le mal ne lui serait pas extérieur, la peau des méchants qu’ils tâchent d’entrer et de il lui semblerait tout naturel, ne se distinguerait faire entrer leur complice, de façon à avoir eu un même pas d’elle; et la vertu, la mémoire des moment l’illusion de s’être évadés de leur âme morts, la tendresse filiale, comme elle n’en aurait scrupuleuse et tendre, dans le monde inhumain pas le culte, elle ne trouverait pas un plaisir du plaisir. sacrilège à les profaner. Sadists of Mlle Vinteuil’s kind are creatures A sadist of her sort is an artist of evil, so purely sentimental, so naturally virtuous that something that an entirely bad creature could not even sensual pleasure seems to them something be, for then evil would not be exterior to her, it bad, the privilege of the wicked. And when they would seem to her quite natural, would not even allow themselves to yield to it for a moment, they be distinguishable from her; and as for virtue, are trying to step into the skin of the wicked and memory of the dead, and filial tenderness, since to make their partner do so as well, so as to have she would not be devoutly attached to them she the illusion, for a moment, of escaping from their would take no sacrilegious pleasure in profaning scrupulous and tender soul into the inhuman them. world of pleasure. The philosopher was wondering aloud what They say you have to make what you desire it might mean to overcome oneself. He was into something forbidden before you can really standing in front of us, but he had stopped appreciate it. They say there’s no pleasure not lecturing as it he’d forgotten what he wanted to accompanied by pain, no real yielding to the say. “The real question,” he finally said, “is what libido before you have stained and sullied it. The it might mean to believe you were overcoming confusion of pleasure and pain, the seeking for yourself.” pleasure in pain, makes for the sadist. an underlying what’s the good truth present from the outset of wanting ordinary things skews the falsehoods when you could desire into rebus strips exotic and forbidden of authenticity and lies pleasures?
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 26 how else explain monotonous fall the pleasures to be got of winter waves from talking dirty? on the sandy beach . . . wrapped in shame and guilt Father murmurs to me, pleasures of transgression We’ll die one day, each alone
for the wild boy ~Taipei, Taiwan there is no sin in wickedness real sensuous pleasure side by side comes from interdiction a young woman and her dog and the resulting sense of guilt in deep sleep . . . a high-rise shadow ~Massachusetts, USA on the cardboard box
Charles D. Tarlton is a retired university professor living in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wife, Ann Knickerbocker, an summer sky abstract painter. Like nearly everyone, he had heard about Proust all his life, read Beckett’s study of Proust, but it wasn’t until this winter they striped with white contrails . . . finally met head on. He has lived twice in France, once is the North and the distance once in the Poitou-Charents, but never visited Proust’s region other than from her heart to mine now in the imagination. widening
sleepless Chen-ou Liu on this sultry night the sounds of a sex worker there are (no) “tapes” in the next motel room of our conversations . . . in shadowy peace I go out and take a leak the black rope as a crow stares at me swinging to and fro in cold air . . . ~Washington, DC, USA is there a tunnel light this last minute of her life? his shaved head glistening with sweat . . . the smell rays of sunlight . . . of newly painted the ponytailed girl Muslim Ban posters pirouetting with her arms outstretched ~Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA to catch first snowflakes a placard that reads first job interview take my hand not my life . . . after being laid off in the moonlight one year ago . . . hand on her belly the morning sun casting she feels a surge of pain my shadow in the snow
~Austin, Texas, USA ~Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 27 coming home from the overtime shift A World of Two Realities this Valentine’s night on my single bed Chen-ou Liu two white paper swans winter sunlight a list pouring through the window . . . of her new demands . . . another I stare cup of wulong tea at the dust motes warms my immigrant heart drifting in our room faded photo in the family album she is not dead on New Year’s Eve and yet not alive . . . eighteen-year-old me stares gaping silence at fifty-year-old me between the two of us who share the same bed long walk home from the late-night shift I shiver she’s gone . . . at the cold sound I roll over of my turning key and face the wall, alone on the shore . . . only the ticks the sound of winter winds of our wedding clock playing a foghorn enters the mist of my immigrant past all that remains of my ten-year an empty nest marriage: in a forked branch nail holes in the walls of the maple tree — and a pile of bills planted in his front yard the foreclosure sign ~Ajax, Ontario, Canada
first chilly night after the inauguration Chen-ou Liu lives in Ajax, Ontario, Canada. He is the author of five books, including Following the Moon to the Maple Land (First Prize, in my dream 2011 Haiku Pix Chapbook Contest) and A Life in Transition and a gray wall between US Translation (Honorable Mention, 2014 Turtle Light Press Biennial and Canada Haiku Chapbook Competition). His tanka and haiku have been honored with many awards. she’s gone for good, patches of yellow grass on the lawn my shadow and I drenched in longing
~Ajax, Ontario, Canada
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 28 Chris Cole Debbie Strange long grass at my ears clouds embrace in silent dance clouds break feather on the wind against desert peaks . . . endlessly circling my dreams shards fall as they fall into the sky into the open mouths of thirsty children ~Australia
beyond Chris Cole lives and works in Canberra, Australia. Possessed of a this inner darkness, particular enthusiasm for short form literature, cross-country skiing, and snowlight crepes that are cooked _just_ right, he dodges marsupials on his way to work, and spends vast periods of time staring at the sky. He may or erases the stains may not be far too familiar with 8-bit computer games from the 1980s. on my conscience
bullets of crows on gunmetal nights . . . a deeper shade Cherita of anguish echoes in her bones Debbie Strange nothing but cold comfort in our courtyard in knowing that the sea you loved the dead snag now spirits you away has silvered with age ~Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada we still hear faint echoes of birds, but have forgotten how to sing you lift me up from this vantage point I can see a parallel universe, in which the only truth is mercy
~Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 29 Reaping Conversation
Debbie Strange Don Miller & Joy McCall the highway Early Arrival smothered with ashes . . . every year, hearing this debate between the first urbanites and farmers tzin tzun tzan she calls city allotments, from outside each marked by fencing . . . when did we start Lisa has this year’s honor of hearing/seeing being afraid of strangers, our first hummer of the season! This is about a being afraid to share week early. Don’t know if that means anything, maybe a warmer than usual spring, or summer. greening . . . even arctic foxes build gardens— We Don’t Have Hummingbirds, but . . . with one seed at a time, could we not feed the world spring has come early ~Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada the garden full of flowers and all the trees with their blossoms and leaves Debbie Strange (Winnipeg, Canada) is a short form poet, photographer, and haiga artist. She is a member of the Writers’ Collective of birds are nesting Manitoba and is also affiliated with several haiku and tanka organizations. Her first collection, Warp and Weft: Tanka Threads, and the butterflies was published by Keibooks in 2015. You are invited to visit her on and bees Twitter @Debbie_Strange and at
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 30 our orbit not quite circular Triads around the sun sometimes we are Don Wentworth, Joy McCall, et al that tiny bit closer
heat-waves 16th Triad then ice-ages and somehow the bucket’s water the earth survives poured out and gone and so shall we drop by drop dew drips like pearls all day from the autumn flowers at the feeder Shiki/Janine Beichman young magpies beside under the faucet the little birds the web waits, glimmering — spreading his violets peek-a-boo DW given so long ago through the garden the frog pond over the wall is leaking slow and along the lane fate steps in the Autumn rains fall splashing on the stone JM Wo/anderings
Why do you suppose when writing tanka for someone that we rarely if ever mention that 18th Triad person’s name, as in the last tanka in the sequence above? to every needle of the needled pine it clings — For me, poetry should leave room for all kinds of the pearl white dew, imagining, like — who is he? who is she? What do you forming but to scatter think? scattering but to form Shiki/Janine Beichman the imagining the universal law can roam, hand-in-hand, water seeking its level with your characters you, turning away DW down the lane past the spires of cathedrals at the tideline dry kelp, frayed rope through gateway arches broken crab shells into gardens, and the last edges across meadows, of words in the sand JM then onto the escarpments above the sea.
~Las Cruces, New Mexico, USA / Norwich, England
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 31 19th Triad looking back The quarrel in the ale house Enid Howell Revived by the hazy moon. Shiku/R. H. Blyth even we made love with head down in the school corridor by the river he was Mormon there’s no hiding the priest came and the masters from the moon. DW and he was long gone Venus the belfry shining in a puddle in that sacred place outside the pub dancing, spinning a bemused old drunk he said — marry me, wishing on the moon JM let us go across the sea
20th Triad he could sing the man from Ghana how he could sing wisteria plumes songs of wildfires sweep the earth, and soon till my skin burned the rains will fall Shiki/Janine Beichman shedding holding my hand all sallow conviction the gentle poet we wait student of law amidst the swirling one grows weary of sycamore leaves DW of such peaceful waters one by one settling down the chestnuts thud the miner to the ground the drunk one by one the betrayer my days ripen and fall JM the one and only
~Japan, United States, England the gold ring on again, off again in the drawer Joy McCall is a paraplegic nurse who lives in Norwich, England. She the gay men has been writing tanka for more than 60 years, ever since she discovered the works of Ryokan in her school library. Lately she also writes ryuka. dear consolation She is the author of many books of poetry, probably too many. trains Don Wentworth is a Pittsburgh-based poet whose work reflects his he drove trains interest in the revelatory nature of brief, haiku-like moments in everyday I could have gone life. He is the author of three full length collections: Past All Traps (2011), Yield to the Willow (2014) and With a Deepening Presence across the land (2016). He is the long-time editor of the small press magazine, but his eyes were pale Lilliput Review.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 32 white powder it fell sealed in the art again and again empty warehouse walls into water I learned to sing tossing rushing the native songs close to drowning old loves some cannot learn coming back to play it safe to haunt me to stay away one more time from floods and fire on the merry-go-round chasms and canyons in the end always I must go I said no to the One where there is danger and my heart broke I hold out my heart and I fled saying —here far over the hills what will you do with it? others ~Cowbridge, Wales forgotten places forgotten names Enid Howell mae hi’n dod o’r cymoedd hyfryd trist (she comes from the and still, was it not sad lovely valleys). love of a kind? sometimes they blur Cherita the beds, the floor the solid ground the shades of skin Gerry Jacobson, Barbara Curnow & the hands in my hair Catherine McGrath another land eyes of a different shape fine bone china teacup darker skin harsher voices aussie flies simpler love black on white lace heathens and priests out there robbers and monks the brittle stillness I learned of a heat wave love has limits all men have rules ~Café Societea, Griffith, ACT, Australia my heart Gerry Jacobson lives and dances in Canberra, Australia. He writes mostly tanka and tanka prose. This is his first contribution to cherita. would not grow wise or settle Barbara Curnow lives in Brogo, rural New South Wales. She writes it flew, it swam tanka on her verandah at dawn. it dived deep Catherine McGrath lives and works in Canberra, Australia. She writes, mostly memoir and now cherita.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 33 oh Dr T Gerry and the Pacemaker your scalpel’s sharp and the sedative Gerry Jacobson and local anaesthetic do take a little while walking to Manuka I feel his cut this hot humid day he hears my scream at the tail of the year keep still you bastard dizzy . . . breathless for I am probing a touch of heat stroke? for your subclavian vein a new year dawns wires in the vein a fine cool morning electrodes in the heart walking out generator breathless . . . dizzy in a pocket of pec blood pressure high and pulse, oh no heart beats once again hospital . . . and now the triage nurse this stitched up heart raises one hand is full of joy doctors and nurses beating at 72 pm swarm around, plug me in so long as the battery lasts pulse so weak ~Canberra, Australia 35 per minute heart is blocked lie down gerry don’t get dizzy silent night Death Bikini in the cardiac ward must not stand up James Tipton in case I crash . . . pee in a bottle For several years I have struggled with morning comes advanced cancer. It has certainly been an I wait, and fast interesting dance. nil by mouth a fragrant breakfast When death finally comes passes me by can she be in the form of that woman wearing the black bikini at last walking toward me they wheel me in on the beach at Guayabitos? and lay me out on a cold narrow slab . . . ~Mexico the surgeon scrubs up
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 34 Vocabulary lessons dry bones
Janet Lynn Davis found tanka from Ezekiel 37, King James Bible 1611 version
Mrs. P’s own definition of our new word of Joy McCall the day didn’t come very close to matching the published one. It went something like this: “A woman who might be down at the docks, near the hand of the Lord the sailors.” Then she attempted to describe how carried me out in the Spirit that woman might look: “Hardened, maybe with and set me downe a puffy face” (which made no sense to me). The in the middle of a valley classroom turned silent. which was full of bones Later the same school year, Mrs. P. assigned us a time-consuming project: research a there were very many profession we were interested in, interview in the open valley someone with that profession, and prepare a and they were very drie report. I played it safe, kept things simple. But an and he said — sonne of man especially smart, conservative girl announced she can these bones live? was going to interview a hooker. Apparently, she’d noticed a few of them at Victoria Station, a he said — prophecie major hub where some of us would catch trains upon these bones home. I never heard if she went through with it, say unto them — but I have a feeling she did. O ye drie bones heare the word the word whore in an 8th grade textbook — thus saith the Lord our teacher struggled unto these bones to define those things I will cause breath we already knew to enter into you and ye shall live ~London, England I will lay sinewes upon you Janet Lynn Davis lives with her husband in a community carved out of and bring up the woods not far from Houston, Texas. Her tanka and related forms flesh upon you have appeared in numerous online and print publications over the past and cover you with skinne several years. She served as vice president of the Tanka Society of America in 2014 and 2015 and currently is the tanka prose editor at Haibun Today. She also maintains a blog, twigs&stones. as I prophecied there was a noise Gerry Jacobson lives in Canberra, Australia and writes tanka in its and a shaking cafes. He cycles, grows vegetables, and prays for rain. He also frequents cafes and hangs out with grandchildren in Sydney’s inner west and and the bones came together Stockholm’s inner north suburbs. bone to his bone
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 35 and the sinews and the flesh capsella bursa-pastoris came upon them and the skinne covered them Joy McCall but there was no breath in them then said he The small weed that grows all over my little say to the winde ‘come garden, which is so loved by the birds and mice from the foure windes for its seeds, is a magic thing that has cured the and breathe upon these slaine ills of people down the ages. It has many that they may live’ common names which say what it does and what it resembles, and they are poetry as good as any. and the breath came into them, shepherd’s bag and they stood up my lady’s purse upon their feet, the witches’ pouch an exceeding great armie a rattling bag white pick-pocket then he said these bones are blind weed the house of Israel pepper-and-salt who say — our bones are dried poor man’s parmacettie * and our hope is lost sanguinary my old mother’s heart ~Norwich, England * From Moby Dick — the whale that took the leg.
The little herb has another name too, from old Ireland — clappedepouch
the lepers stand at the cross-roads ringing bells begging for alms with a tin cup Ryuka tied to the end of a pole
Joy McCall the passersby drop in coins keeping their distance the ancient wolf has left his bones from those with running sores in the dark Siberian soil and frightened eyes I blow the whistle soft and low the whole earth starts howling The mouse that I love so much is living among those wildflowers, finding something that ~Norwich, England feeds its body, and perhaps its soul, too.
~Norwich, England
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 36 roads less travelled Hollow Lane there were Joy McCall five churches once in this small hamlet all the villagers So there’s a place I go as often as I can, to the faithful worshippers small hill where the ruins of the Viking church still stand. It’s a quiet place where solitude comes times passed easy. The little roads around are definitely the and religion failed roads less travelled. Still they have their stories to those common people tell. and they stopped trailing up the hill in their Sunday best Roger’s Lane one by one centuries ago the bored priests left in the old village pub for pastures new there was landlord the old churches his name was Roger fell into disrepair he was a dour-faced man the road that once he was mean was named Holy Lane with the pints of ale gave up its ghost mean with the potatoes and the villagers mean with his tired called it Hollow down-trodden wife two churches one winter day still welcome in a fit of temper the faithful few he killed a man the others lie in ruins who owed him coins lost in thickets and brambles for old ale
so the lane which led to the pub Hawes Green was given his name even as he himself once there was a place hung on the gallows on the hill outside the old village and it is still a place of escape of sorts Roger’s Lane a place of sin though he is bones and his crime the cheap whores long since forgotten gathered there in the ruins ~Norwich, England of the old sanitarium where the lepers’ bones lie
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 37 after dark the men would climb the hill autumn husbands, drunks farm workers Joy McCall even the odd priest
it was not someone asked me my favourite colour and a happy place the muse began to sing — and now I’m hoping the women were poor other poets will sing these songs, too — and ill and weary and the men discontented beech leaves holding on all winter one by one the whores hazelnuts, acorns died and were buried the doe asleep in the churchyards on fallen leaves and the Whores’ Green got a nice new name oak leaves thick on the ground where the mouse hides When I wander those old roads up the hill berberis leaves and pass the thickets where old churches stood, I in wintertime pass the lane that leads to the ruins of the ancient priory of St. Botolph, now a farm and stables. café mocha Sometimes I turn aside from the hill and go along caramel fudge the lane with the grass growing up the middle. curry sauce There are fields of rape and barley on either side. cumerin, tumeric It’s a peaceful place where the wind blows much ginger, cinnamon, cloves of the time over the open land from the sea. Halfway along the lane there’s a turning, mostly tree sap hidden in gorse and tall grasses. There’s an old ancient amber fence there, overgrown with ivy and blackberry firelight thorns. Beside the brambles is the cracked road candle flame sign — Sluts’ Hole Lane. the sunset sky No doubt, one day, it will change its name too but I hope not. There’s a charm of sorts in peanut butter places and their names. mandarin oranges marmelade ~Norfolk, England the soft feathers of chickens the eyes of owls
orange calcite carnelian smoky quartz sunstone, tiger-eye jasper yellow and red
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 38 golden pine pondering — wicker baskets what best to choose saffron threads the trees tell me foxes and their cubs this . . . and this bay horses, brown cows the herbs whisper — here
chutney rosemary carrot soup leaf and purple flower honey help him travel maple syrup through the changes brown sugar until he finds his own truth
beeswax hawthorn bee pollen fragrant blossom catkins green leaf sweet potatoes make his heart beat worn bricks strong and steady
old rum oregano Tennessee whisky the gentle herb my quilt help him bear old oak floors with patience my favourite sweater the trials and pain shepherd’s purse ochre where the mice sleep burnt umber and the birds pick sepia help his body rest russet, raw sienna and find healing oh . . . autumn wild thyme ~Norwich, England the clock ticking and yet it burns slow and is the last to flicker and die
the smoke rises spell for an old poet the prayers are done the green things have given again Joy McCall as they always do for Sandy the wind scatters the small ashes silver clippers on the ground in my hand, I’m listening the fire is cold to birdsong it is time to sleep and evening breeze on my face ~Norwich, England
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 39 yes — no — done Joy McCall
Joy McCall we are born and we die and in between for M. Kei the random hand of fate deals the cards his answers to my questions come while I sleep in the beginning, God, three brief words and skulking alongside him, yes — no — done the Devil — the dark and the light I find them of all creation when I’m wakened by night noises the young foxes yipping oh Sisyphus the tawny owl calling how long can we roll these boulders beyond the trees up the endless mountains the banging of hammers never reaching the top? repairmen for Barry working on the old tracks while the trains don’t run in the asylum sometimes the hatters gather the hammers falls silent their fingers and voices carry — trembling, silver-stained those men laugh loud telling their story so often and so easily * mercury poisoning from thickening the wool
I wonder, at daybreak do they check in with the boss my cure and head for their beds for insomnia? still laughing, and saying I listen yes — no — done? to myself reading my own poems ~Norwich, England
a thin chill wind Joy McCall lives in her birthplace, old Norwich in Norfolk, England. ruffles my hair Her mind is full of ghosts and poetry. circling before it moves on . . . the air is still again
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 40 a hedgehog the doc a tiny field mouse prescribes almonds a crescent moon for my joint pain I’m sitting smiling so am I a woman on the sidelines a mouse or a nut? who knows climbing why the field mouse the stairs to bed and the ragwort she leaves sing to my heart her grumpy self day after day sitting by the fire for Lynda the first call of the dark nightjar the flying fish heralds autumn sing the siren-song my blood runs cold come with us despite the fire and my soul unfurls her blue-green wings an evening cool enough for a fire countless small bones the house spider in the stone-age firepit scurries out from the skirting small birds and mice to the hearth unimagined, the diet of those ancient people
I’m knackered she is unravelling still looking let’s face it for my old neighbour we are both coming apart in the garden at the seams forgetting the fall, the brass-hinged coffin
I wonder what he seeks pondering, I think this fickle man it stands to reason who hits on and at once every woman he meets I see the bewigged judge the craven defendant he paddles up to his knees his dream: in the cold lake croissants with cheese and slowly, slowly and blueberry jam snow begins to fall on some café patio for Don then coffee and a cigarette for Andy
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 41 courage — silt a small weed climbs up through the dry earth Joy McCall & Don Wentworth and breaks into flower
I have a poem in my head every day under the morning glory leaves I am more like a dead sparrow we buried there my long-dead granny — is that a sprig I see? crooked fingers plump cheeks, easy smile it’s a worm, called up by the rain as I turn each leaf, page by page the blue-inked words are washed away as soon as a clay-like silt remains November breaks little brown birds ~Norwich, England / Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, USA come hopping, picking outside my window these days the coal comes from far lands Joanna Ashwell the Valleys are silent and still the men don’t laugh there now barely audible whispers of us ~Norfolk, England surface a memory held in a shell After decades of living in the States and Canada, Joy McCall came back to her birthplace, Norwich, England, a city with a dark ancient history. Her life is a seesaw of joy and pain, loss and learning, darkness and great light. open gaze and the wag of tail Don Wentworth is a Pittsburgh-based poet whose work reflects his interest in the revelatory nature of brief, haiku-like moments in everyday all now lost life. He is the author of three full length collections: Past All Traps as you pad away (2011), Yield to the Willow (2014) and With a Deepening Presence into the sunset of bones (2016). He is the long-time editor of the small press magazine, Lilliput Review. ~United Kingdom Joanna Ashwell from the North East of England. Enjoys reading and writing haiku, tanka and other related forms. Can often be spotted daydreaming or wandering in a quiet place.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 42 Julie Bloss Kelsey skylark
Kazuaki Wakui a row of saplings where the old pines once stood I know that I take my son nobody will believe me, but . . . for driving lessons the sun is such a dirty rat! nobody will believe me, but . . . ~Gaithersburg, Maryland, USA I’ve lent him quite much money!
hiding behind thick clouds graveside turning me away in heavy storms the minister drones on not caring about a tiny creature like me about the fires of hell alas, thus and thus while our family huddles the sun has welched on a skylark! against the chill everything seems fine ~Bountiful, Utah, USA in this cloudless afternoon of bright spring how dare he keeps hiding away from me forever! so the skylark flies up in the sky high in an ornate ballroom and chirps and chirps over his debt the sun is in I drink from a crystal tumbler watching the corner though spring is a good season where a little black mouse supposedly for everyone having fun in darts in and out only I have to make a fool of myself ? so the skylark screams, “Pay me back!” ~Albany, New York, USA and chirps and chirps and chirps in the sky high
Based on a folktale in the northern Japan. finally, the children cease their chatter ~Shibata, Japan one final squeak from the dog’s chew toy
~Germantown, Maryland, USA
When Julie Bloss Kelsey isn’t chauffeuring her three children, she enjoys writing short-form poetry about frogs, clouds, and aliens from her home in suburban Maryland. Visit her on Twitter (@MamaJoules).
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 43 at the museum Crossroads
Kazuaki Wakui Keitha Keyes in his innocent mind He spoke French and drove a Citroen. Two my old friend bought a pair of socks good reasons to try him out as a boyfriend for a for his old friend while. We went out a few times but then it was at a museum shop of Hiroshige uni holidays. I had to go home to the farm so he forgetting completely she has lost her feet made plans to visit me. at the museum shop of Hiroshige Our farm was about 30 miles from the my old friend bought his friend a pair of socks nearest town. Visitors would ring up from the not for her physically lost feet town post office to get directions from there. but for her spiritual feet of freedom which bring her to anywhere Just out of town you’ll come to an intersection . . . gravel road . . . dirt road . . . a in the silence of museum hall cluster of mailboxes . . . a break in the mallee how are you traveling tree . . . a white gate on your right. Don’t forget through famous views of sixty-odd provinces of to shut the gate again after you. Our house is just Japan? up the road. seeing from this low angle on the wheelchair my old friend’s soul is playing with Hiroshige The boyfriend arrived. It was a short visit. Mum didn’t like him and didn’t invite him to stay ~Shibata, Japan the night. So he had to sleep in his car. He took off early in the morning and that was the last I saw of him. After his wandering around various places with various things for years, Kazuaki finally settled in a little house in the mountain area of Shibata, Japan, dwells and Australia hibernates with an old American poet there . . . totally in the sixties — illiterate but word lover. the charm of a foreign accent didn’t work on parents
~Yoolaroi, NSW, Australia
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 44 Order His Lot
Keitha Keyes Keitha Keyes
Still an hour’s drive to get to the farm for no need Christmas with my parents. My husband and I to wear a watch decide to stop at the last town on the road for on the farm — something to drink. from dawn to dusk there’s work to be done The town consists of a post office, three houses and a pub. It is built next to a couple of round wheat silos where the local farmers deliver their and round the paddock harvest. and round again Dad on his tractor There are three men slouched over at the bar today just like yesterday as we walk into the pub. The bartender points at the sign “Ladies Lounge.” The accepted ~Goolgowi, NSW, Australia behaviour in the 60’s is for the women to go into their separate area and wait for the men to bring them a drink.
But I am a bit of a rebel. I sit down at the bar, light a cigarette and order a shandy for my husband and a beer for myself. The bartender Epilogue looks embarrassed and confused. Keitha Keyes men in the pub drinking women after the war at home cooking . . . history paints pictures the way things should be of the victors and the vanquished ~West Wyalong, NSW, Australia . . . much of it just luck
peace . . . the absence of conflict with others or a ceasefire with the demons in your head
~Cowra, NSW, Australia
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 45 Keitha Keyes Leonard Green at the airport Listening to traffic: I bathe in the sounds not ocean, of foreign tongues . . . but water Australia is so far away falling in a dream from the rest of the world of mountains and streams.
~Sydney Airport, Australia ~Brooklyn, New York, USA a good year Hanging laundry with plenty of rain in the morning wind dams here I am: dot the countryside seventy years, a lost kite, gleaming with hope almost out of sight.
~Wagga Wagga, Australia I sleep deeply as if dreaming under water, a hearse eyeless in the dark: waits for a ship on fire, the world floats above me. to dock at the wharf far off, someone calling. somebody’s journey has ended too soon Too early ~Wellington, New Zealand spring grows old. frail, you take the last two steps on your own.
Lavana Kray Rain drops quietly on the white pine litter: he in the still, morning air gently covers the scorpion somewhere, very near, with sunscreen oil . . . a wood thrush calling. her lovely tattoo ~Long Island, New York, USA fresh ink on my drawing sheet; criss-crossing cockroaches traced a new pattern overnight
~Romania
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 46 imagined river Lorne Henry
Liam Wilkinson & Joy McCall I investigate the sound of the alarm clock continuous reading Chia Tao under dusk its timing unfailing thoughts of a mountain lamp shining it’s a cricket in the desolate calm — tonight my mind is far from home ever unfolding Li Po is calling low to me ‘Great Scientific Ideas from across the green, still waters: That Changed the World’ it is not time to come, lady — my grandfather taught science rest, day-dream, write poems one hundred years ago
I have met Wang Wei many times along an imagined river I crawl this evening he offers me wine, up a long steep road ink, a brush and a scroll behind a truck he pulls over on the crest ~ North Yorkshire, England / Norfolk, England to gaze at the sunset
Liam Wilkinson lives in North Yorkshire, England. He has served as nesting once more editor of 3Lights, Prune Juice, Modern Haiga and Englyn. His tanka the wagtail collects collection Seeing Double: Tanka Pairs was published by Skylark my dog’s fine hair Publishing in Spring 2016. from the welcome mat After decades of living in the States and Canada, Joy McCall came I hope they’re safe this year back to her birthplace, Norwich, England, a city with a dark ancient history. Her life is a seesaw of joy and pain, loss and learning, darkness and great light. too hot for anything but a sheet Keitha Keyes lives in Sydney, Australia, in a small house decorated with ship models, antique irons, and trivets. And a cocker spaniel. Her my dog snuggles down retirement would be very empty without the lure of writing tanka, under folded bedclothes haiku, tanka prose, cherita and other poetry. where he can’t see the lightning Lavana Kray is from Iasi, Romania. She is passionate about writing and photography. Nature and the events of her life provide ideas and inspiration for writing. She has won several awards, including WHA bedclothes Master Haiga Artist 2015. Her work has been published in many in the washing machine print and online journals, including Haiku Canada Review, Haiku after hot nights Masters, The Mainichi, Ginyu Magazine, Frogpond, Ribbons, etc. She was chosen for Haiku Euro Top 100, 2016. This is her blog: the sound of running water
Leonard Green, born in 1949 in New York, he now lives in Pedasí, ~New South Wales, Australia Panamá, Brooklyn and East Hampton, New York. Degrees in painting and literature, he exhibited mostly in New York and taught literature. Lorne Henry has been writing haiku since 1992 and tanka from about Having retired, he now spends his time surfing, gardening and writing. 1996. She also writes tanka prose. She lives in countryside New South Wales, Australia.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 47 Louisa Howerow Sacred Place
Lynda Monahan how tranquil the leaves speckling the pond how tempting . . . There is a small rise along the north shores of as if in reading their pattern Waskesiu Lake where a huge boulder rests I’ll find the why of you surrounded by a circle of smaller boulders, many half buried over time. I come here often. It is a between us place not written of in the books on the national a creak, a stutter park history. Many native burial sites, remnants of sunlight . . . of dwellings, ceremonial and traditional sites in time, a turtle have never been identified. No one knows. emerges And yet here it is. To my mind, this is a sacred place. The Woodland Cree, a nomadic morning greets me people, often travelled the park’s waterways, with burnt toast, an empty cup, hunting, fishing and camping along these shores. a hasty note, I believe that this was once a ceremonial ground each letter in my name or a spiritual meeting place. It is so quiet here leaning into the next that, as I climb up to sit atop the giant boulder, I can feel the past everywhere around me. an ant birchbark canoes struggles to carry away woodsmoke and pemmican the crumbs circle of tipis we’ve swept from our laps . . . the soft laughter of women there’s only so much gathering berries beneath the pines ~London, Canada I open my hand against the warm stone, feel the sun’s heat, on the wind the whispered voices coo-coo, the call of this sacred place, all the stories it has to tell. of a burrowing owl fills the air . . . ~Canada our guide repeats the call, but I hear no-hope, no-hope Lynda Monahan is a poet who lives in the Nesbit Forest of ~Alberta, Canada Saskatchewan,Canada. She spends her summers on the shores of Waskesiu Lake in Prince Albert National Park. She is the author of three collections of poetry and has had her tanka previously published in my baba Atlas Poetica as well as other tanka publications. braids garlic as if it were a child’s hair intertwining ribbons and everlasting daisies
~Ukraine
Louisa Howerow’s latest tanka have appeared in Eucalypt, Ribbons, and Gusts.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 48 three laptops M. Kei on deck tonight— the sailors talking to home in the evening quiet if the ship’s cat is happy and well tended, i have a winter heart so is the ship and that is why that she calls home you will never find me in summer gardens the ship’s cat a lithe athlete agile, all of us broke strong, her birthday gift and sure of himself to me was a brown glass bottle of good root beer seventeen years gone, but still my black cat home sweet ship a comfort sourdough bread in every hardship rising in the warmth of the engine room tapping the rust in the old car a hole appears— trying hearts are fragile to catch like that too the lightning on the quarterdeck with my new camera the sailor doesn’t have a car, a house, or a wife the new crewman the freedom standing his first watch of owning nothing the cold breeze blowing away all doubts and fears sitting at the foot of the main mast ~Atlantic Ocean on a spring evening the waters are still M. Kei is a tall ship sailor and award-winning poet who lives on and the crewmen’s voices are soft Maryland’s Eastern shore. He is the editor of Atlas Poetica : A Journal of World Tanka. His most recent collection of poetry is January, A Tanka Diary. He is also the author of the award-winning gay Age of Sail adventure novels, Pirates of the Narrow Seas (blogspot.narrowseas.com). He can be followed on Twitter @kujakupoet, or visit AtlasPoetica.org.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 49 Margaret Van Every The Queen’s Fingers Snap
Marilyn Humbert & Frances Black Saint Peter’s Basilica machine guns guard the left scanners guard the right I look down the gates of heaven from the hilltop secure from the faithful people ~Rome, Italy like soldier ants defending the nest
Independence Day parade a sharp snap a black man with sack and shovel of the Queen’s finger walks behind the sheriff transforms mounted on life into death a white steed seamless killing
~Tallahassee, Florida, USA long swords slice through the air patter of feet now home, the deportee a devil’s dance gestures at so many graves across the field bearing his family name — all my people are here a reflection he observes for the first time of the human heart where the iron of war the Gringa complains closely embraces to her Mexican neighbor the flowers of love of his barking dogs; her neighbor replies the fallen ¿Señora, why do you listen? beneath withered petals dream of battles ~Ajijic, Mexico the wreath of honour forever young the New York subway history hoards inferno of noise, crowds, heat — countless combinations in Times Square of love and hate a driver without a cause with tribalism mows down pedestrians always centre-stage
~New York City, New York, USA ~About AD 60 Boudicca Queen of the Celts leading an uprising against the occupying Romans Margaret Van Every lives in Jalisco, Mexico, where she writes fiction, essays, and poetry (traditional western forms as well as Japanese short forms). She has two volumes of tanka: A Pillow Stuffed with Diamonds (bilingual), 2010, and holding hands with a stranger (2014). She is a founding member of the Not Yet Dead Poets Society.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 50 grievances Home and Beyond short-lived in hindsight settle as cinder . . . Marilyn Humbert, Samantha youth beams Sirimanne Hyde & Kate Brown from well-worn frames kb
the full moon Visiting peers over my shoulder shining a path . . . Waking alone, far from the hustle of I search my map yesterday. There are no mountains or hills, the for the bridge home mh earth is flat. A familiar place. Is it the tree-line scratched on the horizon or the rusty tractor I pass wandering towards a house in the distance? Closer now to the overgrown garden, the star- The Trek picket wire fence sagging midst purple thistle flowers. In the early hours of a misty morning I start hiking up Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka, a holy a curlew’s call mountain sacred to all faiths. Limping in the across the plains dark, this seven kilometres of steepness seems this melancholy never ending. revisiting fallow fields As I near the summit, I struggle against the of my other life mh descending stream of human traffic. Among the faces of joy, random looks of pity for me, the one who’d missed the sunrise. Past lives hallowed chimes . . . on the battered bell People go missing out here, he would say. no reflection Sometimes in cheek, sometimes keeping me in despite the vista’s splendour check. Then silence would stretch between us the this overpowering gloom ssh length of an iron ore train, the racket of steel wheels rattling through my head. When I hear an invisible bird cry like a newborn unsettled by the night, I’m flown to the The Photo old house in Humpty Doo, surrounded by untended shrubbery and carnivorous insects. Like a periscope, his head hovered alone Maybe I did disappear out there, little by little, above the crowd and refused to be swallowed. inside myself. The morning sun rose steadily with the bustle of a Beijing market, the name of which is long cordoned forgotten or perhaps never quite remembered; in a mind’s corner unlike the crystallised image of that red Honda hazard tape cap tilting upwards and that smile peering over stretches across regrets rice hats. like abandoned cars kb
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 51 Dark Shadows The Creek
Returning to my birth country after a three- My grandson calls me Jadda although Nana year absence, I start at a new school at the age of or Grandma are more familiar honorifics, I shrug nine. It’s an all-girls’ Buddhist school, known for and think what’s in a name. Today we are driving its strict discipline. I feel awkward about many into the hills, following the little-used 4x4 track things but mostly for not being familiar with my riddled with potholes, marred with erosion native tongue. The bullies sniff out my fear, gouges to the creek. The forest encroaches as we rearranging the furniture and slamming me drive further in, branches clutching the sides of between two desks in the teacher’s absence. our truck. Travelling slowly, we play spot the bird: They’re delighted by my tears, mocking my shoes cockatoos, galahs, lorikeets and wrens. Then with the large silver buckles and calling me breeching the rise, water sparkles between gum- “American cry-baby.” trunks. Whipbirds are calling as we kick off our shoes and paddle knee deep in the creek. going home sepulchral jack trees blue eyes tower over me shine with mischief . . . dark shadows seep snared into my consciousness ssh in the current leaf boats tumbling mh
Rinse and Repeat Starry Night For years I had envisioned an au naturel, water Stars fill the dome outshining the sliver of birth. No startling, clinical, drug-riddled entrance moon dangling above the tree-tops. Sounds of into the world for my children! The decision trickling water, music amongst owl’s hoot and immediately followed an online clip about nocturnal scratching. The time has come for pregnancy in a health science class a few years difficult decisions to be made. Here at the before I could even contemplate copulating! It crossroads. was also around this time I switched, at my parents’ disgust, to veganism. dreaming beneath Both resolutions lasted, despite the latter the celestial montage begrudgingly forcing a deviation from the of a better way, parental, meat-laden diet. But, my tenacity didn’t a different way account for a middle-aged body that might never than yesterday’s charade mh cooperate to full term.
sodden socks with a misplaced step Aftermath trudging mud . . . in spite of plans we arrive After the bomb, I can’t hear anything except via life’s scenic route kb the ringing in my ears. There’s rubble everywhere, mangled bits of metal, glass, blood and bodies. Still clutching my handbag, I stumble around not thinking straight. Inside, I want to scream but don’t. Slowly making my way on the
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 52 asphalt road away from the carnage, I get to Nineteen Eighty-Two another bus stop and board a waiting coach. Outside the door of my student hostel room hot air billows in Konstanz, there’s a little queue of young through open windows people waiting to get free haircuts. Not that I engulfing stillness . . . know these persons well or the art of cutting hair I decide to flee but we’re all poor, our scholarship money not to another land ssh stretching very far. The word has also spread that on a whim I have bought myself a pair of hairstyling scissors and a razor comb.
Looking Back only praise for my ragged work, How many turnings of the earth around the that simple world sun have passed? My burgundy hair now snowy of brazen confidence white. My straight lean trunk is gnarled and and implicit trust ssh scarred. People say that is a sign of one who has lived long and well, worked hard. In this place of my heart-full glass and no reflections, far beyond mother earth of stories to tell . . . I wonder who lives on the planet I left so long treading ago. homeward bound sprinkled in starlight mh I turn my face to a distant star, ~Sydney, NSW, Australia free from gravity’s pull . . . far away from you mh Marilyn Humbert lives in the Northern suburbs of Sydney NSW surrounded by bush. Her pastimes include writing free verse, tanka, and haiku. Her tanka and haiku appears in International and Australian Journals, Anthologies and Online. Some of her free verse poems have Smells like . . . been awarded prizes in competitions and some have been published
Colognes of men who’ve offered their love; Frances Black is a new convert to tanka, which she is enjoying perfumes of women I adored; freshly baked immensely. She lives by the water on Sydney’s Northern Beaches. The bread in the early mornings of my first job; other genres she enjoys are essay writing, memoir writing and producing picture book stories for her grandson. laundry powder when I began to wash my own clothes in year eleven; my auntie’s insistence that Samantha Sirimanne Hyde was born in Sri Lanka and now lives you should never walk past a rose while exhaling. in Australia. She is grateful to have crossed paths with the exquisite world of haiku, tanka, and other Japanese poetry forms. He enters my room earlier than the sun, and sniffs dramatically before announcing: I love this Kate Brown is currently residing in Sydney, Australia, Kate has smell, it smells of you. I lift the sheet from my king spent most of her life in Darwin, Northern Territory, and has worked in finance, aviation and hospitality. Writing is a hobby and part of her single, as is customary, and the ever-growing boy current studies at Edith Cowan University, which draws on her unique slides in for a cuddle. upbringing, diverse travels, and distinct wit. Kate’s style is exploratory and experimental, yet tackles social dilemmas while incorporating the in one blink subtle humour and ironies of everyday life. he stops tinkering mumbling of Lego and Disney to grumble of bills kb
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 53 The prayer Marshall Bood
Mariko Kitakubo that winter without heat — a rainbow you can only rises up from the grass land insulate yourself so much Ngoro Ngoro Crater — he went to heaven on a rainy African night the group of pseudo- intellectuals refills cups of coffee . . . was the label rain still dripping ‘black leopard’? from the leaves we toasted with a glass of Serengeti beer ~Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada to your life, Tanzania
summer breeze — Mercury “You’re really good face to face with at getting Pluto — into the sand trap, golden scales kept falling Uncle Marshall!” on my shoulders ~White Bear Lake, Saskatchewan, Canada fragrant sandalwood piled high . . . Mariko Kitakubo was born and lives in Tokyo. She is a tanka poet and your coffin a tanka reading performer. She published 6 tanka collection books is wrapped in including 3 bilingual ones. On This Same Star, Cicada Forest, Indigo. the sacred flame Also she made a spoken word CD, the title is Messages. On 2005, she started the reading performance wold wide (in US, Canada, France, Switzerland, Australia, India and Africa). URLs: en.kitakubo.com, livepage.apple.com. About the new sequence ‘The prayer,’ that is the the elegy elegy about my nice friend who lived in Tanzania . . . when he was 67 is sung in Swahili, years old, suddenly passed away (in February). the flame Marshall Bood recently published a biographical poem about Jean of cremation is surrounded Genet in Scryptic Magazine (online). He wrote this poem in December with the sadness of the tribe 2002 and over the years many good journals were close to accepting it. His favourite Genet novel is The Thief’s Journal.
Maryalicia Post is a journalist and travel writer based in Dublin, the last trip Ireland. from this world . . . Matsukaze is a classical vocalist/actor/poet living in Dallas, TX. He sunshine has been writing short verse since early 2006. before the rainy season — Murasame lives in her birthplace, old Norwich in Norfolk, England. eternal prayer She too grows old and her mind is full of ghosts and poetry.
~Tanzania
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 54 Cherita Cherita
Maryalicia Post Michael H. Lester homeless Rebecca asleep on the pavement in each other’s arms the name excites me both beautiful humbly I’ll never forget I leave some coins the time she looked at me ~Dublin, Ireland
the new secretary
eager to please the head of production early rising always just one compliment away Matsukaze & Murasame from the casting couch a morning flotilla of wind and sunspill over coffee thinking of simpler days I am smitten if only all these cluttered hours would drift away as her breath billows out and leave behind a quiet empty space like a mist of cool mint climbing into bed after 4 a.m. rosy cheeks in her muffs and scarf this house a belly of silence. nothingness. clapping her gloved hands dancing against the cold gentle, my sleep and dreams until the blackbird sings loud to his love in the dark before dawn home from work — seated eating pound cake mortified you ask me to run naked in the streets I refuse watching from my window as the early risers to go to school follow you down the hill to the river to bathe wearing ~Texas, USA / Norwich, England my sister’s bobby socks
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 55 I learn he trembles very early at the touch in life of her slender hand when mom asks just the tips how the chicken tastes of her fingers I should lie gentle on his shoulder
on the swollen river Richard where bullfrogs despite his Morton’s toe catapult from rock to limb his corns and his bunions a boy with dirty feet convinces himself drifts away to nowhere he looks fabulous on a raft of crooked hickory planks in his new high heels
I watch the smoke
Seymour rots leave her mouth in great blue swirls in a prison of his own making her head tilted back in ecstasy a low-cut ballroom gown where an imaginary bunk mate sweeping across her bosom has his way with him every other Tuesday ~Los Angeles, California, USA
Steven and Derek anticipate problems finding his and his towels those smarty-pants Gwendolyn and Madeline think they have the solution
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 56 The Age of Aquarius Percolations in Troubled Waters Michael H. Lester Michael H. Lester It’s a time of war and a time of protests — a time of riots and a time of free love. My wife leaves without me to visit her family back east for Christmas and New Year’s. flowers Something is not right with our marriage. stuffed in gun barrels . . . I pass much of the holiday fishing alone off a bullets small dock on Balboa Island in Southern alter the career paths California where we rent a granny apartment of young protesters above a garage. An oil slick from all the rich people’s boats covers the water. Many of the fish, Tall, blond, and beautiful, he talks of mostly smelt, have parasites in their gills, and California where young men and women gather who knows what other diseases lurk beneath the by bonfires at the beach under the stars to drink, surface. smoke, play guitars, and make love. I wonder what he is doing trimming trees here in Detroit he hammers when he clearly belongs on a beach in Malibu. a stake to mark his homestead . . . He invites me to go to California with him. one morning Beach Boys’ songs like Little Deuce Coupe and he wakes to an empty bed California Girls, along with the lure of the Pacific and a stranger in the yard Ocean and a perfect climate, seduce me. The next day, this same Adonis asks me to On a particularly calm and sunny morning, a loan him ten dollars. I tell him I have no money. I boy joins me on the dock. He whistles the jingle have no idea how badly he takes my refusal. to Bob’s Big Boy while we fish in otherwise While I am precariously perched halfway up perfect silence. It’s a catchy tune, and soon I have an elm, sawing limbs to beautify the tree and to to check myself to keep from singing along. make it less top-heavy, the Adonis suddenly attacks my feet with a pole saw. Somehow, I I don’t like being alone, except when fishing, survive the attack without falling or losing a limb. but even so the company of the boy provides comfort. At lunchtime, an attractive young little critters woman walks up and hands the boy a sandwich. lodged in the tree bark She also hands one to me. Pb&j? she says. I just doing their jobs accept and we make conversation. One thing along comes the tree-trimmer leads to another and I ask if she is free for New to tar up the feed trough Year’s Eve. She says yes, I’m Anna. I tell her my name and promise to bring champagne. Soon after this incident, the Adonis dies in a motorcycle accident on his way to work. one step away I eventually make it to Los Angeles where I from a parallel dimension marry a California girl, sit by bonfires at the and the great unknown . . . beach under starry skies, and listen to the Beach he sticks a toe Boys. in the murky water ~Los Angeles, California, USA
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 57 I arrive at her door late New Year’s Eve trembling slightly with high hopes for the N.E. Taylor evening. I knock once and wait. No answer. I knock again — twice this time and harder. No still the arched moon answer. I sit on the porch for a while. At a questioning eyebrow midnight, I finally give up. awaits my answer clouds erase the moment My wife returns from her trip and we walk fog horns begin together along Balboa Island’s Main Street, but we inhabit two different worlds. I see the young ~Playa del Rey, California, USA woman across the way and she sees me. I consider it for a long moment, but I don’t go to her. monarch butterfly mistakes my colors My wife and I divorce soon after. We both for a crowd of roses remarry. briefly I am an object of desire Occasionally, I still hum the jingle to Bob’s Big Boy and think what might have been. yellow roses burst ~Los Angeles, California, USA too quickly in the heat and blush about the edges Originally from Detroit, Michigan, Michael H. Lester is a CPA and surrendering to summer attorney practicing business management for the entertainment industry I add more sunscreen in Los Angeles, California. Numerous journals have selected Michael’s haiku, tanka, cherita, haibun, and tanka prose for publication. Michael ~Westchester, California, USA is the author of a book of poetry, Notes from a Commode – Volume I, available on Amazon.com. He has several other books in the works, and is a co-founder of the cherita: your storybook journal. canada geese waddle by the pond on the green avoiding wild shots hardly a summer vacation golf carts dodge lazy tourists
~El Segundo, California, USA
bee commando dives into my iced tea the danger of allergies I am saved by quick wits and the garbage disposal
~Westchester, California, USA
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 58 each day moves in eternal soot Cherita everyone just passes by the cathedral’s blank wall Patricia Prime disguises angels dancing
~Los Angeles, California, USA his vision
growing dimmer on the pebbles turning to magnolia of this little stream a crayfish dances white shadows leaves float by dancing before his eyes no city sounds intrude (just practice)
~Manheim, Pennsylvania, USA
autumn flowers i have saved your seeds even as you fall crimson and yellow moist against the knife in dancing sunlight orange bell pepper i will watch your children grow grapes are misted bruised and blue ~Kitchen counter, Westchester, California, USA after the rain church ladies cook up chicken corn soup water dripping down by the crick full pickling jars glisten colour down summer ends with relish the legs of cut-offs
~Lancaster Co., Pennsylvania, USA he’s sketching looking out over sand towards the ocean N. E. Taylor is a Los Angeles,CA-based poet. Her work has appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies, including what wildness is this (anthology), Postcard Poems and Prose, Strange Horizons (annual anthology and journal), Ribbons, Tales of the Talisman, Astropoetica, and the 3288 Review. Ms. Taylor also specializes in very tiny poems in the crowded house and has received the Haiku North America Conference Award. the movement of grown-up children
all I have and hold captured in faces I’ve known all their lives
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 59 the boy busking I sit on the veranda while the sound of a tui plays well-known tunes rolls from a branch on his piano accordion the trees toss their leaves as the wind touches my face as he’s so good we drop $5 notes into his open case the highway north slides quietly onwards no sound breaks the silence, nothing at the edge but tyres on the slick wet road of this cold lake mountains rise to the sky there are many books I share my life with poetry, unrumpled history and biography, unstained — covered but all the books cannot by a dusting of snow satisfy my longing for you
~Auckland, New Zealand thick fog outside while I sit at the table with my thoughts, dreams and problems Patricia Prime listening to Bach
silvery bark mother took us out of a fissure to the cinema on Fridays a line of ants her pay-day moves into the sunlight ultimately, we were happy of a still autumn day living in a fairy-tale world
shrouded in cloud they seek the sun the cone-shaped volcano and glamour of Fiji rarely shows itself meanwhile a minute or two I gather light and warmth and then it’s gone from my embroidered past ~Auckland, New Zealand reading his letters Patricia writes poetry, reviews, articles and Japanese forms of I imagine them being poetry. She has self-published several collections of poetry and a book of written to me — collaborative tanka sequences and haibun, Shizuka, with French poet, all the love my husband Giselle Maya. Patricia edits Kokako and is reviews/interviews editor of Haibun Today. She writes reviews for Atlas Poetica, Takahe and didn’t put in writing several Indian journals.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 60 Bank Holiday fish stall a plate of whelks Patricia Prime was dad’s choice then a last paddle in the flat sea before home glittering sun a miniature train ~Auckland, New Zealand clacks along the pier the sound of children and parents enjoying a day at the sea
My family’s idea of an enjoyable time at the seaside on the south coast of England was to sit on the sun-baked beach with a choc-ice watching A Garden Bouquet the Punch and Judy show. Punch was an ugly puppet with a hooked nose and grotesque chin. Patricia Prime & Giselle Maya The entertainment included Judy, their baby, an exotic crocodile, dog Toby, a lengthy string of sausages, policeman, hangman and gallows, and all I had to do sometimes the ghost of Judy or a devil complete was open my window with horns and spiked tail. The puppet theatre and in streamed was regarded as suitable family fun despite its the blueness of the sky, violence, death and hanging. The catch-phrase of birdsong and the scent of roses Punch: “That’s the way to do it!” was repeated throughout the show and children were is there a poet encouraged to chant the refrain as he beat his in this mountain village wife. two appear along the cobbled lane all eyes on him with a bouquet of poppies a child peeps behind the curtain caressed by grass as a gust of wind we watch the sky between reveals the puppeteer the foliage of trees as young couples stroll The striped booth was set up by travelling together in the park entertainers and the dull monotonous thump of a drum was an evocative sound which drew an mother’s day audience as a magnet draws iron filings. One of flown from their nest the showmen went around the crowd beforehand long ago with a cloth bag on a long pole to collect the fee they call me from far places of sixpence. i play with the garden cat
After the show, our parents took us to the unstitching fairground or the penny arcade. We had the a hidden childhood choice of a stick of peppermint rock with the from a vase of foxgloves seaside’s name printed throughout it, pink candy a stillness framed in memory floss on a stick, a toffee apple or ice cream. where everything is revealed
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 61 tiny bee orchids Paul Mercken grow on the meadow delicately Paul Mercken, Dutch-English his hand brushes mine as I pour Translator beans to plant into his palm calm quiet Een oud-collega, trouwe vriend, the mountains rise again ooit fervent revolutionair purple in grey nu een Taoïst geworden the sun has loosened its grip vroeg me hem op te zoeken in and cast the landscape aside zijn Aardse Paradijs.
harusame spring rain An ex-colleague and faithful friend, from clouds to narcissi once a revolutionary alleviates now turned into a Taoïst bluethroat’s thirst asked to come and visit him in and cools my face his Earthly Paradise. a blue sky today with not a breath of wind De eerste dag moest ik rusten nothing moves van de opgelopen jetlag yet the palm’s fronds maar ‘s anderendaags was groot feest: are dancing presentatie in het Chinees van zijn zoons’ kinderboek. stones piled nine high in shallow water The first day obliged me to rest shimmer of cockle shells from the jetlag I suffered from — so long since we walked the next was for celebration: barefoot in sea sand the presentation in Chinese of his sons’ children’s book. ~New Zealand / France
The volgende was een feestdag: Patricia writes poetry, reviews, articles and Japanese forms of poetry. She has self-published several collections of poetry and a book of de viering van de voorouders — collaborative tanka sequences and haibun, Shizuka, with French poet, overal in het hele land Giselle Maya. Patricia co-edits Kokako and is reviews/interviews editor spettert vuurwerk in bos en dal: of Haibun Today, and reviewer for Atlas Poetica, Takahe, Metverse dank zij hun bestaan we. Muse and Poets International.
Giselle Maya is a painter, poet and gardener who lives in a mountain The next was a national one: village in Provence. She has published a series of handmade books and veneration of ancestors — recently her book Cicada Chant, collected haibun and tanka prose, Red firework erupts in the whole land Moon Press, for which she has received an Honorable Mention, Merit Book Award from the Haiku Society of America. Her poems and in the woods and in the valley: sequences are regularly published in several journals such as Ribbons, thanks to them we exist. Kokako, Skylark, Akitsu Quarterly, red lights and others.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 62 De tweede week kwam Christina om op haar vader te passen Pat Geyer maar ook met mij te genieten reizend langs de Oost- en Westkust — pulling twee vliegen in een klap. saffron threads a pinch The second week Christina came of spice for the stew both to look after her father one more passing year and enjoy traveling with me all along the East and West coast — two birds killed with one stone. bright face ~Netherlands of autumn . . . freckled leaf In ’t Pingxi station beams orange luchtlampionnen met wensen in the sun hemelwaarts sturen — Koreaanse karakters in memoriam Kongmin. sweaters gently In Pingxi station fall from sending small hot air balloons wire hangers . . . in Korean script autumn leaves towards the gods in heaven memorializing Kongmin. autumn . . . ~Taiwan maples holding their arms Retired philosophy professor and medievalist from Belgium (°1934), in arabesque Bunnik, NL. Research and teaching in GB, USA, Florence IT and Utrecht NL. Committee Haiku Kring Nederland (Dutch Haiku Society) ~East Brunswick, New Jersey, USA since 2004. Published Bunnikse haiku’s en ander dichtspul, 2012 (Bunnik Haiku’s and Other Poetic Stuff, in Dutch) & Tanka of Place — ATLAS POETICA — Tanka’s van plaats, 2013 (bilingual). Voluntary work in the fields of nature, society, culture and spirituality. Pat Geyer lives in East Brunswick, NJ, USA. Her home is surrounded Humanist, promoting democratic confrontation by dialogue. Nominated by the parks and lakes where she finds her inspiration in Nature. for the local poetry contest Bunnik about Bunnik 2017. Published in several journals, she is an amateur photographer and poet.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 63 Paweł Markiewicz Day-Dreams and Night- Dreams : An Englyn Unodl May-sun-time and wind Union* Cherry blossom are raised by marvellous breeze Cranes are resting in ponds Richard St. Clair Ibikus rests with May hearts wondrous light streaming from afar ~Poland the terrible beauty of a distant exploding star Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze now shines in our skies (Poland). He studied both law and German studies in Poland. He is the poet who writes in german, polish and listen to the pounding heartbeat english. He likes the most marvellous poetry. His more than of the waking cosmos 30 poems have been published in Germany. Paweł has a field spaniel. He lives in Bielsk Podlaski (Poland). earth, air, fire and water greet the womb-like ocean
listless humid springtime breezes ignore the passing time striking a familiar chord Happy Hour At The Plaza in the dangling wind chimes unseen birds repeating their chants Peter Fiore in the soaring treetops then a familiar dance of life-force once again “. . . so did you think you’d live forever?” movies under my closed eyelids “At some point in my life I guess I did.” filling my brain with sights of darkness and light “The longer you live the more ways of dying you cerebral — no escape see.” old stale memories come back to plague “All the home run hitters I watched growing up my overcrowded brain are dead.” I push and pull in a rage but the images won’t leave “And you never fuckin know . . .” bells ringing off in the distance ~United States of America gently stirring me from sleep their mournful tandem ringing leaves me in a trance Peter Fiore lives and writes in Mahopac, New York, USA. His poems have been published in Atlas Poetica, Bright Stars, American Poetry black clouds rolling in from the west Review, Rattle, Ribbons, Skylark, A Hundred Gourds and others. In 2009, Peter published text messages, the first volume of poetry totally sounds of distant thunder-blows devoted to Gogyoka. In 2015, Peter’s book of tanka prose, flowers to ignored by feeding pigeons the torch, was published by Keibooks. and some scrawny crows
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 64 flower is flower an assault of thunder and lightning no matter if weed breaks through the evening air I leave them a whiplash of rain follows blooming then a calm despair blooming
~Massachusetts, USA no caretaker cares * See Richard’s article in this issue for additional information about the to mend or tend gate Welsh englyn. where unkempt vines twist and turn to lock Richard St. Clair enjoys writing tanka and haiku along with less mossy graves forgotten familiar forms. The englyn from Wales comes in a variety of forms and inspired this sequence. His tanka have appeared in Atlas Poetica and Bright Stars and other shorter publications by Atlas Poetica. His haiku and renku have appeared in leading journals. A native of North Dakota every autumn see (b. 1946) he also has a Ph.D. in music composition from Harvard and a last leaf holding on is a recognized modern classical composer whose music has been performed in three continents. A Shin Buddhist, he resides in to a withered limb — Massachusetts, where he has lived most of his life. you fought the cancer to the end — then, gone
ashes scattered out to sea — finally, part of Robert Henry Poulin something big
a match hearts in sync once struck consumes itself our hands entwined and everything fearing tears around it the doctor avoids our look — inflamed with passion “cancer,” was all he said consumed loving you we must not again geese make a plan to come I am still here this earth-bound way wishing too then leave one of us behind to fly off: to where to grieve the other’s going you eternally are morning dew after a storm our feet blacken moonlight adds white with our walk to the snow across green grass in your smile my mood holding hands from dark to lovely bright
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 65 life is wonderful: pealing bell . . . without it torchlight dapples I could not feel on a narrow path softest kisses the crunch of snow caress my lips before dawn meditation old bell tower in the garden striking no sound I pull out a weed, ever more a friend tells me until cancer’s death knell it’s an exotic herb ashes fill so small a box where he’s from
~Florida, USA what I said what I meant to say so different — Robert Henry Poulin in in his 75 year and has written tanka poetry for the past 27 years, and has been published internationally, with several a crescent moon awards in the genre. He is a widower living in Spring Hill, Florida, hangs off the chimney USA . ~Australia
Samantha Sirimanne Hyde was born in Sri Lanka and now lives in Australia. She is grateful to have crossed paths with the exquisite world of haiku, tanka and other Japanese poetry forms. Samantha Sirimanne Hyde this mask of armour he wears for others to see I watch him rescue a lizard Sanford Goldstein from the frozen gutter pipe on this offbeat track why is it a solitary streetlight the morning’s calm to guide my way sky this deep gratitude fails to register? to have you in my life am i suspicious of man’s insanity? red onions how natural frying in coconut oil the incest was at the end and spices, of that British novel, mother’s recipe I recall the neighborhood horror on a stained paper sheet when a twelve-year-old was killed
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 66 all night at times I sing a battle with my right leg, a song about youth, and pain from left buttock to knee, I surprise party members what person is trying to drive by saying I will sing my depression even further? Qué será será
~Japan another suicide bomber in Iraq, carrying with him Sanford Goldstein is now 9l years old. He has been writing tanka for sidewalk innocents more than fifty years. He continues to live in Japan with his friend Kazuaki Wakui. and my own depression opening the morning newspaper, and all the news Steve Black is violent
eclipse a red red rose in the lido in the late spring a solitary turd rain, drifts the wind tries to past the sun scatter petals but cannot
spring melt depressed signs of life at ninety-one, the search party more anguish in fluorescent jackets awaits me with dogs at ninety-two
shutters down my friend a poor man’s howard hughes plans our trip sitting in the dark to Germany and Poland, watching having just left the hospital, daytime television I don’t think I am up to it
bent double in the rain at an early the old man age my only crime coming to grips was stealing my father’s change, with the shit my father never said I did, of his young wife’s dog but I am sure he knew
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 67 for a minute there i aim the souvenir i forget myself my grandfather hid after the war from the multi-storey point it at the mirror i follow the avenue of trees wonder if i too away from the city could kill someone the kind african woman she calls late named comfort says she’s now released who stood in the doorway asks why and checked i was still alive i still sleep every 15 minutes with the light on the little book she eats his sins of happiness the lies that linger she wants it back exposed i’ve had more than after dark long enough in the refrigerator light her ashes scattered the bailiff between the graves with his foot of the two loves of her life in my neighbour’s door come the rain her tv and other necessities they run to the first stacked in my hall for my sins and charity the man under siege running this long road in his mother’s house expectation he says he’s got a gun and my superman costume but he said that last time weighing me down and the time before that i keep her secrets the money the ones she forgot she had she hid hidden around the house from her son in her passing in the bible i spill down the sink for a half-decent funeral i cover her modesty she’s in the kitchen as she squats making the tea and relieves herself in the alley i sit on the plastic covered sofa like she always says the recently polished china elephant i’m lucky to have her pride of place on the mantelpiece
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 68 the rope left its mark but the tree healed Tamara K. Walker eventually her father cut it down pink highlighter anyway discarded on the sidewalk in April remnants of back-to-school a gift given accentuate silent streets i knew little of such things should i keep it alive or let it die i tried to keep it alive picking dandelions but it died anyway from the cracked sidewalk these cruel kindnesses — pissing away the stains I tie them to a branch in the public toilet protruding from the grass is it too much to ask at my age ~Columbine Hills, Littleton, Colorado, USA one clean shit surrounded cornered at the bus stop during a downpour by a doomsday prepper by hydrated lives lamenting I stand parched, fingernails cracking unreliable timetables under a black umbrella and the new world order ~Denver, Colorado, USA on the line the same magpie seeking refuge as yesterday from these new dilemmas and the day before that in five lines all my sorrows gazing vaguely toward the sun outside my kitchen window she wants to watch herself ~Littleton, Colorado, USA doing it play the tape back again and again condensation she wants to live forever on a stained-glass columbine in the east window ~Reading, United Kingdom permitted a muted glimpse of rain on the other side
Steve Black was born at the end of the summer of love in the West ~Columbine Hills, Littleton, Colorado, USA Country, now residing in the shadow of London. Recent work can be found at Skylark Tanka and Failed Haiku.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 69 my hands reeking of coffee grounds A House Resembling a left on my mother’s table Promise though I drink only tea I hardly mind this smell Tanja Trček at the pharmacy Hundreds of yellow butterflies were fluttering reflecting on the last months in the cascading azure air, children frolicking, while I wait their small soft hands reaching up, their crystal like this drug I rely on voices catching light. fulfillment is elusive Then I spotted him, making his way up the slope. He sat down by my side, in the grass. ~Littleton, Colorado, USA Breathing slowing down, his gaze drifted from one soft green hill to another, until it stopped on the golden dot above the spire of the church on saffron strands the hill just opposite us. In the sun the dot next to the vanilla beans glistened like an old byzantine coin, polished in glass jars each day by the meticulous white-gloved hands of like runway models a celestial curator. Shining, it separated my past flashing with overpaid boredom from my future, but he couldn’t have known it. A poet, he lived among the verses, life a string of ~Niwot, Colorado, USA metaphors worn around his neck. I had never seen him outside that somber building. In a short sleeved t-shirt, jeans, with a experimental poetry wind in his hair, in the May grass, among the that no one will publish moon daisies he looked unfamiliar. It was sits on my desk upsetting. I thought I had known him, at least a with office supplies she left little, at least the perfect knot of his tie, at least that I will never use the two blue pens always on his right, side by side, but never touching. ~Littleton, Colorado, USA Suddenly, a voiceless voice poured down on me: smooth, golden honey. I closed my eyes, Tamara K. Walker resides in Colorado and writes short fiction, often of turned my face skywards. I felt it drip from my a surreal, irreal, magical realist, experimental or otherwise unusual hair, flow in slow sweet rivulets down my arms, flavor, and poetry, often in originally East Asian forms. Her tanka have my bronze thighs. The bees puckered their tiny appeared or are forthcoming in A Hundred Gourds, Eucalypt, LYNX: lips and kissed my warm meadow-scented skin. I A Journal for Linking Poets, and Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal. Her fiction has appeared in The Café Irreal, A cappella Zoo, saw his lips, ruby red they were smiling, kindly, The Conium Review, and others. calmly, as though at an uncomprehending child. They were forming soft shapes, but there was no sound, just the golden color, the sweet taste, the scent of a spring meadow washing over me. “Tanjuša,” he said. And I returned to Earth and saw a hand. It descended from the blue sky, landed tentatively on my arm and folded its white wings to take a rest. Then I saw another one, suntanned and yearning, it reached out to touch his hair. His hair, as black as night and just as
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 70 silken. In midair, the hand stopped, lay down on my lap, trembling like a quiet prayer. Between my the sound of magic palms I noticed a heap of sunshine. Carefully, I shaped it into a small soft house with brightly lit Vladimir Laptenok & Joy McCall windows, so that it resembled a promise. I gave it to him. “Thank you,” he nodded. He smiled. We leaned on the blue sky. if I play “How is a poem born?” the flute from the horn “Like a mountain spring,” he held out a then notepad. immediately The verses in blue ink were cascading down comes the wind the pages, rushing wildly, flowing softly into my heart, until it was drenched lyrical. when I blow the wolf bone whistle It was then that he touched me once, twice in that gentle manner of the poets from high in the tree just the rosy softness a blackbird answers of my girlish soul and god is my witness if I take the rain rod in my hands ~Slovenia then after a while Severe illness has sharpened Tanja’s vision, so she can now find the sky answers rain the tiniest of joys, hiding in the most unexpected of places. She loves sunshine and the sea, as well as everything, which is green and growing wildly. To build worlds made of words, to laugh and love many beings when I blow and things is what she enjoys most. the native flute low and slow Tim Lenton is 72 and has been writing poetry most of his life. He has from the far trees returned to live in Norwich, England, where he was born, and has been writing tanka since being introduced to them by Joy McCall, with an owl calls back whom he has published a book, Stillness Lies Deep. He loves Scotland. Some of his poetry can be found on www.back2sq1.co.uk. we understand rain is calling to rain wind to wind Tim Lenton still, there is the surprise the magic afoot the fisherman stands in swirling waters ~Krasnoyarsk, Siberia, Russia / Norwich, England waiting, waiting for that hidden silver flash of intercepted light Vladimir Laptenok lives in Siberia, believes in untreated wood, silence between sounds, scrawl on white paper. yellow flowers Joy McCall lives in her birthplace, old Norwich in Norfolk, England. stand sentry on the track Her mind is full of ghosts and poetry. as we proceed above us the bare hillside four deer cross by the fence
~Norwich, England
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 71 Звуки Магии The Garden of Blooming Flowers: My Experience of Владимир Лаптенок и Джой Tanka Writing Маккалл
Владимир Лаптенок, англо-русский Pravat Kumar Padhy переводчик
Human values embedded within the На флейте из рога framework of natural beauty influence my poetry Едва заиграл я writings. At an early age I wrote both longer and Как ветер явился shorter versions of free verses. Some of my Немедленно poems are characterized by aspects related to social issues. I am more comfortable in writing Из волчьей кости shorter version of poems. This has given an Свисток зазвучал additional avenue for writing tanka. The article, Один раз, два -и ‘The New Short Lyric Poem,’ by Denis M. С высоты, средь листвы Garrison inspired me a lot. Черный дрозд отвечает I wish to do experimentation by assimilating the essence of scientific fragrance into the petals Посох дождя повернул of poetry. Recently I have coined an idea of Зашумел и “Astro-Poetry” assimilating the essence of Небо мне ливнем scientific entities in literature. In one of my Ответило poems titled ‘The Other Being,’ I wrote in Poetbay in 2010: К губам поднесу я Древнюю флейту At times I wonder Низко и медленно Perhaps we are the Из далеких деревьев Living images Сова откликается Of distance cosmic rays At an imaginative focal length. Мы понимаем Дождь призывает дождь I write shorter version of poem with Ветер - ветер philosophical touch. Initially I was not knowing Но всегда неожиданно these poems are close to tanka. Later I read some Волшебства проявление of the classical articles on Japanese poems by Jane Reichhold. Indeed the age old literary ~Krasnoyarsk, Siberia, Russia / Norwich, England cadence manifests the excellence of humanism and emotional behaviour. ‘Tanka’ means ‘small song,’ and originated in the 7th century AD in Владимир Лаптенок живет в Сибири, необработанное дерево, Japan, when it was known as waka. Originally тишина между звуками, каракули на белой бумаге. tanka was known as uta (’song’ in Chinese). The .Джой Маккалл живет там, где родилась, в Норвиче, Норфолк, waka has been written on seasonal subjects (kidai). Англия. Ее ум полон призраков и поэзии. Waka literature, popular during 7th century AD, represents the classical Japanese aesthetics of the Man’yoshū, Kokinwakashu, and Shinkokinwakashu eras. The earliest rich collection, Man’yoshū
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 72 (Collection of Myriad Leaves), consists of 4496 expression of a poetically connected theme have poems out of which 4173 are waka poems. The been dealt with in detail by M. Kei. Different schemata or mora patterns follows 5-7-5-7-7 techniques of tanka writings have been illustrated (known as ‘sanjuichi’). Original structure was in by Jane Reichhold ‘Teika’s Ten Tanka 5-7, 5-7, 7 and subsequently became 5-7, 5-7-7 Techniques,’ (2010). during the Man’yo period. Japanese poetry is syllabic by nature and is The pre-existing format 5-7-7 was known as not metrical or rhymed in style. The equivalent katauta. This format was preceded by a number of syllables would be more in English. The Japanese 5-7 couplets composing the long poem known as long poem c hoka, i s s t r u c t u r e d choka. Later waka was widely known as tanka, a 5-7-5-7-5-7-5-7-5 . . . 7-7 onji in line length and five-lined short song (post Meiji period), named may even exceed 100 lines. Onji refers to counting by Masaoka Shiki in 19th century. The Japanese of phonetic sounds. The katauta is known as the poet, Jun Fujita, adopted tanka into English in basic unit of Japanese poetry. In the choka, the 1923 (Tanka: Poems in Exile). The tanka is divided 5-7-5 or 5-7-7 (17 – 19) onji pattern is widely seen. into two strophes. The first three lines of tanka is In early days the preference for ending Japanese known as kami-no-ku and the last two lines is poetry was with the 5-7-7 onji pattern. The 5-7-5 known as shimo-no-ku. Sometimes there is rare onji ending has become more prevalent as of now. composition of three strophes. The pivot line or Tanka is constructed by 5 lines or units or swing line (zeugma) is the main organ that phrases each with an odd number of onji, and distinguishes tanka from the five-lined free verse. ending in the traditional 7-7 onji pattern. Makoto Tanka contains two parts, the inner and the outer Ueda gave details on the reform and modernized scene, in terms of rhythm structures and each of review of tanka elaborately in his book Modern about one breath in length. The break or swing Japanese tanka. Of late we adopted tanka in five line formats the tanka in 2/3, 3/2, 1/4, or 4/1, lines (s/l/s/l/l) without stressing the syllable or a simple sentence with each line having a count. concrete image as suggested by Kala Ramesh. The tanka genre has a wide scope of poetic Generally line 3 serves as pivot line and swings expression on a broad spectrum, as described by away the art of expression from the three lines Jane Reichhold, based on mystical expression and above from the prominent lines below imparting loneliness (yugen tei), gentle expression (koto an expression of poignancy to poetry. This pivot shikarubeki), exotic beauty and elegance (urawashiki (kakekatoba) links one way with the lines before it tei), human feeling, love, grief (ushin tei), grandeur and equally links and reads with the lines after it. (taketakaki tei), visual description (miru tei), witty In contrast to haiku, tanka embodies with conventional subject (omoshiroki tei) having subjective judgment rich in lyrical intensity, complex imageries. Sometimes the subject matter musicality, and with emotional emancipation. may be described with unusual poetic concept Tanka does not necessarily deal exclusively with (hitofushi aru tei) or narrating in precise details with nature. It embodies wide thematic values of complex imageries (komayaka naru tei). Some human expression: pathos, anguish, emotion, tanka, in contrast to elegance or balanced romanticism and other reflections with poetic narration, exhibit strong diction in style of elegance and musicality. Poetic essence (honi) or expression. This is classified as demon-quelling exhibition of personification or (onihishigi tei or kiratsu no tei). anthropomorphism, use of metaphor, similes, The Wind Five Folded School of Tanka by Jane metrical exhibition, etc, are highly embedded in Reichhold; scholarly essays published in Atlas tanka writing. It is associated with imaginative Poetica; Tanka Online; the classical tanka archived blending of alliteration and assonance. in ‘Aha Poetry’ site; Tanka Teachers Guide, MET There have been many subgenres of tanka Publication, 2007; AtlasPoetica.org, and others are like kyoka, gogyohka, gogyoshi, zuihitsu, etc. The the storehouse of rich tanka literature. tanka sequence and tanka string with the
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 73 I derived a lot of poetic inspiration from the Often I try to follow simple expression on enriched essays written by Sanford Goldstein, conventional aspects. Tanka unfold the inner Jeanne Emrich, Michael McClintock, Kala beauty with gentle expression (koto shikarubeki). Ramesh, Beverley George, Michael Dylan Welch, The followings are some examples: Jane Richhold, Richard MacDonald, Robert W. Wilson, J. Zimmerman, Max Verhart, H. F. I watch Noyes, Karina Klesko, John Daleiden, Carmen the black, white and brown Sterba, Larry Kimmel, Elizabeth St. Jacques, short and tall Richard Gilbert, Randy Brooks and others. The all variances and varieties article ‘Introduction to Tanka’ by Amelia in the garden of beauty Fielden, ‘Sensing Tanka’ by David Terelinck, scholarly articles by Danis Garrison, and Robert Magnapoets, Issue 9, January, 2012 D. Wilson have been very beneficial in understanding the age-old classical Japanese warmth genre. Later I got a lot of encouragements from in the winter cold Marilyn Hazelton, H. Gene Murtha, Kirsty reminds me Karkow, Aurora Antonovic, Sonam Chhoki, of my mother Susan Constable, Tokido Kizenzen, Robert lulling me to sleep Epstein, Miriam Wald, Don Miller, Liam Wilkinson, Lorette C. Luzajic, and many others. red lights, June, 2012 I composed three five-line poems and sent them to Anglo-Japanese Society. I was new to the in starlit sky traditional style and syllabification of tanka the beggar counts writing. However, Dr Hisashi Nakamura, the coins President, Anglo-Japanese Tanka Society, UK, just enough was quite appreciative of the philosophical for a Christmas cake underline of the poems, though it did not strictly follow the s/l/s/l/l schema. I made minor edits Ribbons, Fall, 2012 of the poems at a later date. Primarily these tanka reflect mystery and depth (yugen tei). I deeply appreciate Kathabela Wilson’s A few selected compositions, given below, poetic support when I published a tanka-art express the mystery with metaphoric overprint based on an image sent by my daughter, Smita, blending with unusual complex imageries. from USA with a concept of elegance in expression (urawashiki tei). he searches in the kingdom of darkness the poet scripts for a ray of light her well-lit voyage the sun remains always ripples of love in hide for the innocent blind the darkness paints gently on the silken edges Indo-Anglo Tanka Society, UK, 2010 ‘Poetry Corner,’ ColoradaBoulevard.net, May at life’s shoreline 2016 the sands of time escape from many gaps . . . The followings are some examples based on I collect memories elegance and poetic essence (honi): embedded in sediment
The Notes from the Gean, Vol. 3, No. 1, 2011
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 74 rows of trees along stretched seashore A Hundred Gourds, Vol. 4, No. 4, September, remain speechless 2015 perhaps the oceanic vastness interacting in deep silence The phrases, son’s return from battle, coffee mixed with tears, the stain of separation, portray Simply Haiku, Vol. 10, No. 1, Summer, 2012 deep solitude. In the tanka, the rainbow, nature is intertwined with human emotion (jo). Ron Moss, fragrance of flower touched by sorrowful manifestation of the poem, from far off distance portrayed a tanka art. our relationship Tanka with creative interplay of imageries I narrate and mail her exhibit the style of grandeur expression (taketakaki through the gentle wind tei). In such writing, influence of metaphorical components are often seen. In the following The Bamboo Hut, Vol. 1, No. 3, 2014 tanka, the phrases like taste of salt, colour of the wind, gap of the emptiness spell out the The narration of the above tanka endures splendour and musicality of tanka writings. graceful and melodious expression with musical note (sonority). wave after wave Most of my tanka are primarily focused on on an incessant journey emotional expression (ushin tei). I felt privileged on another sunset inclusion of the tanka given below in the Special when I long to change the taste Feature at AtlasPoetica.org, ‘Snipe Rising From A of salt, the colour of the wind Marsh — Birds in Tanka,’ edited by Rodney Skylark, Vol. , No. 2, Winter, 2014 Williams, April, 2012. black and white the sparrow paintings on the pot leaves its message the transgender coming home searches the streak of colors the old man still awaits to fill the gap of the emptiness son’s return from battle ‘Chiaroscuro LGBT Tanka,’ Special Feature, One can stretch the pathos of the old man AtlasPoetica.org, August, 2012 on receiving the telegram bearing the sad news. Spontaneity of tanka writing quite often with telegram expresses the visual imageries (miru tei). In the awaits the old man at post office following tanka, the common observation such as the grief soaked paper penguins in Antarctica, climbing of a spider, sends the message to darkness stillness of mountains create images of moment over the coffee mixed with tears with poetic essence (honi).
Simply Haiku, Vol. 8, No. 2, Autumn, 2010 white-land of Antarctica a serene gathering of penguins, the rainbow the veteran leads the mass slowly disappears to the curvilinear point into the sky where ice meets the sea the stain of separation drenches me with tears Atlas Poetica 6, 2010
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 75 the spider climbs from a ball of flesh up the corner edge Queen Gandhari brought forth on stepping stones her Kaurava clan . . . the handicapped boy science celebrates the birth aims towards the starlit sky of test-tube baby, Louise Brown
Ribbons, Vol. 9, No. 2, Fall, 2013 ‘Myths and The Creative Imagination,’ Special Feature, AtlasPoetica.org, April, 2015 for million years the mountains in stillness Note: In the Mahabharat, Queen Gandhari her remembrance sprinkled water over a ball of flesh, which was spells the perennial presence divided into a hundred and one parts about the within vast space of my rocky silence size of a thumb. These were then placed in pots Whispers, Vol. 10, No. 2, 2017 with clarified butter and kept at a concealed spot under guard. In due course, a hundred brothers I portray some compositions which are and one sister were born, known as the common and witty in expression (omoshiroki tei). Kauravas.
my shadow the temple steps lengthens towards light lead to the corner end . . . the cry of owl with Ardhanarishvara reminds me in dream the devotees divinely sense it is still midnight the softness of the stony carvings
Atlas Poetica 18, Summer, 2014 ‘Yin, Yang, and beyond,’ Special Feature, AtlasPoetica.org, October, 2015 under the shadow our twisting lasts for long . . . Note: The name Ardhanarishvara means tossing the stone “the Lord whose half is a woman.” In Hinduism I return in the evening and Indian mythology many deities are carrying the half-moon of love represented as both male and female, manifesting Neon Graffiti, Keibooks, 2016 with characteristics of both genders, including Ardhanarishvara, created by the merging of the The above tanka are suffused with humour. Lord Shiva and his wife Parvati. The phrases such as the cry of owl and half- Scientific quest and mythological concepts moon of love are replenished with poetic have been interpreted in the above tanka. amusements. Unusual topic and typical word phrasing have Occasionally I have composed tanka with been used to spell out poetic expression. unusual poetic concept (hitofushi aru tei) to evoke In some of my tanka, I try to narrate in socio-cultural underlines. details with complex imageries (komayaka naru tei).
we feel proud a lone myna being descendant of Neanderthals high in the sky on the flow of time the kite living here, adjacent everywhere descends on its weight as a part of the long human-ware holding the silent wind
Diogen, February, 2012 Cattails, April, 2017
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 76 my gleaming mother simplicity of flow of river, gentleness of the trees shares her pleasure and calmness of shadow. with twin buds Science is the composite reflection and I sense ripples of sound poetry is its genetic soul. Let us put poetry to of the swimming clouds thrive in time and anti-time, in matter and antimatter. Let poetry remain immortal They Gave Us Life Anthology, 2017 enlightening the lamp of humanism and brotherhood. The phrases such as holding the silent wind, I wish to conclude by citing my tanka swimming clouds are the depiction of art of published in Atlas Poetica 6, 2010. exquisite imageries. I have written one or two tanka with dictated tomorrow man may strong tone (onihishigitei or kiratsu no tei). Such type fly to Mars and beyond of writings expresses anguish of the socio- I wish all to settle political issues. and flourish as human alone — no caste, no religion stormy night deep darkness tears through ~India whiteness of woman silencing everyone else and letting moon to set in shame Pravat Kumar Padhy, Scientist and Poet, hails from Odisha, India. He holds Masters in Science and Technology and a Ph.D from Indian Institute of Technology, Dhanbad. His literary work cited in Lynx, Vol. XXVIII, February, 2012 Interviews with Indian Writing in English, Spectrum History of Indian Literature in English, Alienation in Contemporary Indian argument English Poetry, Cultural and Philosophical Reflections in Indian Poetry in English etc. His Japanese short form of poetry appeared in various and counter arguments international journals. I pile up like dust His haiku won Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Honourable it is all in the street Mention Award, Canada, UNESCO International Year of Water Co- operation, The Kloštar Ivanić International Haiku Contest, Creatrix the wind you can not seize Haiku Commendation Award, IAFOR Vladimir Devide Haiku Award and others. IRIS International 2, July, 2016
The phrases like, “letting moon to set in shame,” “the wind you can not seize” are a sort of dictated statement. Poetry creates a fabric of resonance to transmit the human essence into our surroundings and further into the greater space. Japanese art of poetry writing spells the aesthetic values of nature. It inspires to unfold the spiritual wealth of nature, even in the dust particle. The mystic of art and literature delightfully reveals the kaleidoscope of science through colourful flair of human aspiration. It amalgamates the spiritual romanticism and intellectual cadence in the perennial journey along the corridor of nature’s blissful beauty. The essence of poetry lies in the fragrance of flower,
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 77 internal/end-rhyming rule from the traditional Englyn: A Welsh Alternative form, however, I have elected to have only one to Tanka rhyme, an end-rhyme between two lines one or two lines apart, with an option to have an Richard St. Clair internal rhyme.
The englyn (plural: englynion) in its many variants is a traditional Welsh poetic form that is similar in many ways to the Japanese ryuka or tanka, in particular the four-line englynion called The Way of Tanka by Naomi the englyn unodl union and the englyn cyrch. Many early englynion seem to represent moments of Beth Wakan emotional reflection while others reflect the heroic tradition. Others still are lyric, often Reviewed by Michael Dylan Welch religious meditations and laments. It is this lyric characteristic that I feel to be most like poems in The Way of Tanka the ryuka and tanka traditions. Naomi Beth Wakan In total, eleven varieties of the englyn exist. Brunswick, Maine: Shanti Arts Publishing, 2017 The original forms are found in the work of the Perfectbound, 144 pages, 5½ x 8½ inches earliest attested Welsh poets, and they are either ISBN 978-1-941830-60-4 three-line or four-line poems. The englyn is the This book is also available as an e-book from only set stanzaic metre found in the early Welsh Google Play, Amazon Kindle, and iBooks. poetic corpus, and explanations for its origins have tended to focus on stanzaic Latin poetry and As students of tanka poetry know, the tanka hymns including inscriptions on Roman tombs in genre is more than a thousand years older than Wales. its shorter imagistic cousin, haiku. Tanka evolved The types of englynion closest to the in Japan more than 1,300 years ago from uta, Japanese ryuka or tanka are the englyn unodl which means “song.” These chanted poems were union and the englyn cyrch. Traditionally the written down in Chinese, Japan’s first written former consists of four lines of thirty syllables in language. As Japan began to assert its own lines of ten, six, seven and seven syllables language, uta became known as waka, which respectively. The seventh, eighth or ninth syllable means “Japanese song.” And many centuries of the first line introduces the rhyme and this is later, waka became known as tanka, which means repeated on the last syllable of the other three “short song.” Tanka is now written around the lines. The part of the first line after the rhyme world as a five-line poem. Naomi Beth Wakan alliterates with the first part of the second line. would seem, by her surname, to be the perfect The englyn cyrch has twenty-eight syllables with person to write about tanka poetry and how to four lines of seven syllables each, the final compose it, especially given her many other syllables of the first, second and last line rhyming. books on Japanese poetic genres. It turns out that For my own purposes, I have chosen to freely her invented surname is actually a Lakota First adapt a cross between the englyn cyrch and the Nation’s word meaning “sacred” — or “creative englyn unodl union. My hybrid version is closer energy,” as she and Elias Wakan, her wood- to an englyn unodl union (which I call my sculptor husband, have interpreted it. She says poems); its more compact form with the first line the name has nothing to do with “waka” poetry shortened from ten syllables to eight syllables, but that she does like the connection to the and the following three lines shorter (5 to 7 Japanese phrase “wakaranai (yo),” or “I don’t syllables each). Rather than having the complex know.” As such, Naomi Beth Wakan brings her
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 78 beginner’s mind to readers of her books. poems, and occasional personal stories and Whether despite or because of this stance, she opinions enliven the prose and cannot help but has much to tell us about the rewarding genre of make anyone, especially those familiar with tanka poetry in The Way of Tanka. haiku, want to dive in to try writing tanka. Traditionally, tanka poems offer 31 sounds If it may be a service to readers, the (not to be confused with syllables) in a pattern of following are a few summations of key points, 5-7-5-7-7, and are most often written in five lines and my subjective reactions to various parts of in English. Tokyo’s Tanka Poets Club and the the book as they unfold. In some cases I might Haiku Canada organization (led by Kozue identify gaps in knowledge or experience, in Uzawa) have both proposed that about 21 others applaud a fresh and disarming insight. syllables is a recommended maximum length These responses may be useful for both (likewise, about 10 to 14 syllables is equivalent to discerning and unsuspecting readers alike. the 17 sounds of Japanese haiku). It’s from these and other informed stances that Naomi speaks. 1. Naomi advises that “One must assiduously If I could sum up the value of this book — study the rules of poetics and then ignore and indeed, the value of writing tanka poetry — them” (10). This comment may well be based on it would be to quote a single passing sentence what I believe is a misunderstanding of Bashō, that appears near the end of Naomi’s book. She who said, of haiku, to learn the rules and then says, simply, “Writing tanka can’t help but make forget them. But by “forget,” I do not believe he you more aware of yourself, your feelings, and meant “ignore.” Rather, I believe he meant that your motivations” (118; all page references in you learn the rules so well that they become parentheses). In a way, tanka poetry is that ingrained — so much so that you no longer need simple, a sort of poetic diary-keeping — a daily to even think about them. I’ve found that the practice that Sanford Goldstein has called Bashō quotation has been used cavalierly for the “spilling” tanka. And Naomi offers a beguiling, if unthinking breakage of rules. Poets should never sometimes quirky, view of this poetry and how to limit themselves, but they should also position write it. She rightly emphasizes the reading of their poems to take advantage of effective and tanka, and quotes many dozens of tanka by other time-tested techniques that make their poems writers (and fortunately some of her own) to work, whatever genre they might be exploring. illustrate the many ways of writing. “Rules” may be the wrong word for what it’s In fact, Naomi begins her book with a set of good to aim at in tanka (I prefer saying “targets” 50 tanka that she admires, saying that “I am the — for haiku also), but one “ignores” them at kind of writing teacher who lets her students one’s poetic peril. As Lenore Mayhew wrote in plunge in unknowingly and allows them the her translation of Sarumino (Monkey’s Raincoat: freedom of an untutored initial exploration of Linked Poetry of the Basho School with Haiku Selections; the matter at hand” (12). In this way she Rutland, Vermont: Tuttle, 1985), “Rules . . . are empowers her readers, even while she also meant to serve, not to intimidate” (48). excuses herself from some of her possible responsibilities as a guide on the way of tanka. 2. The fifty poems Naomi begins with (13) She also lets herself off the hook in her include contemporary poems by English- introduction, where she says “My interpretations language writers as well as a few translations from and opinions . . . may be considered entirely Japanese masters. What we see is poems that wrong by more learned experts” (10). Indeed, Naomi loves, and we also see her uninhibited some readers may quibble with bits and pieces of declaration of that love. This infectious her prose, or not even be aware that they should enthusiasm will surely inspire even the most quibble. But they cannot protest the style of skeptical of readers. Because so many poets are writing, which is warm and inviting, making the quoted in this book, making it as much an book a pleasurable read. Sets of tanka, longer anthology of tanka as a guidebook to writing
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 79 tanka, it would have been helpful to have an 6. Naomi refers to a Susan Constable poem index of contributors at the end. Indeed, the as having a metaphor when it doesn’t: “a book cites 246 tanka (some of them repeated, toothpick / stuck into the cake / comes out and several in sequences), five haiku, five tan clean . . . / wishing it were as easy / to know renga, and two longer poems. One could read when I’ve said enough” (28). If anything, this is a this book just for the tanka alone and be very well simile (because of the word “as”), but the poem rewarded. presents an actual toothpick stuck into a cake, thus it’s not a metaphor. This poem is included in a 3. One of the longer poems Naomi includes section in which she explores the value of the five is a 19-line piece titled “Writing a Tanka” (26). senses as a key part of the tanka art. A later You’ll have to read it for yourself, but my sense is poem, by George Swede, is also touted as that the exact same thing could be said of haiku, “Another example of metaphor” (33): “entering so here the book begins to raise the age-old old age / I look less for truth / but find it more question of how tanka and haiku differ — and so — / a mid-winter thaw reveals / pieces of sky.” often definitions (my own included) could be But again, the poem itself has no metaphor. applied to both haiku and tanka, except for Rather, the reader may apply a metaphorical references to length. She gets to the point later interpretation of what is really a direct statement (on page 48) that it’s fundamentally tone that of observation that is paired with an actual, not distinguishes the two genres, in addition to metaphorical, depiction of nature. The metaphor length, which I readily agree with. Yet she notes isn’t in the poem but in the reader’s interpretation of that “Unfortunately, as I try to explain what its two parts, which I think is an important makes a tanka a tanka, I find it almost distinction to make. The metaphor happens in undefinable” (48). Yet there’s still something there the reader (if at all), but not in the poem itself, at in tanka, something ineffable, and she trusts least in these examples. readers to gain their own intuitive feel for it. All the example poems, with touches of commentary 7. Naomi proposes that “Many tanka have along the way, work together to develop the two parts: the first is often the setting of the reader’s feel for tanka in all its undefinable scene, and the last part, generally the last two elusiveness. lines, is a comment that expands the personal to the universal, or vice versa” (32). We see this in 4. Naomi favours the “short, long, short, the Constable and Swede poems I’ve already long, long” structure for tanka’s five lines in quoted, but in her statement I think I would English (27), even though many tanka don’t simply change “Many” to “Some.” This follow this pattern, even her own. She says that generalization is easily shown as not applicable to “If one doesn’t keep somewhat” to this pattern, lots of tanka poems, even though it may be “tanka becomes little distinguishable from short accurate for some. Yet I appreciate that she free verse” (27). I’m not sure I’d agree, especially refrains from such a stance as saying that tanka when tone is at work, plus the five-line “should” have such a structure. What she doesn’t confinement, but she is not alone in making this mention in this context is the notion of tanka choice, one followed by such notable tanka poets having the kami-no-ku (”upper phrase”) in the and translators as Amelia Fielden and Kozue 5-7-5 beginning, and the shimo-no-ku (”lower Uzawa. As an alternative to this choice, I favour a phrase”) in the 7-7 ending, so there’s a bit of a more organic approach to form, letting lines be lost opportunity here to present more of tanka’s short or long of their own internal accord. While historical practices. the rhythm Naomi espouses supposedly echoes the rhythm of Japanese, I don’t think we need to 8. The chapter on pivot lines (35–47) seems be limited to that, and perhaps alternatives could to be where I feel the author goes most astray. have been mentioned. My understanding of the Japanese technique of
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 80 the kakekotoba or “pivot word” is that it’s a single but not necessarily a switch from inner to outer. word, not a line, but I do agree that an entire line can have the same effect sometimes (in English if 9. In passing, Naomi says “a tanka is a not in Japanese). The point is for the word or line summing up of the universe” (42). Yes. to mean one thing with what precedes it, but another with what follows. However, most of the 10. Despite saying that tanka are almost poems she quotes do not strike me as having this undefinable, Naomi offers the following overview feature. To clarify, here is a quoted poem, by of tanka: “I would define tanka as a five-line David Terelinck (40), that does offer a pivot: poem of various line lengths, but preferably of “your side / of the wardrobe / empty / I wait to the short, long, short, long, long form, resembling be filled / with possibility.” Here the word somewhat the form of waka, the original name “empty” refers literally to the wardrobe at first, as for tanka” (48). Fortunately, she doesn’t stop part of the first three lines, and then figuratively there, adding that “The contents may be of any in its application to the author’s feeling as part of topic, but the most common is that of a sensual the last three lines. The poem pivots on this word, image, often taken from nature and some and its meaning changes. But in the following comment on it that reflects human nature or the poem, by Gerald St. Maur, also offered as an state of the universe.” Indeed, it’s that comment on example, the same effect does not occur: “just out the sensual image that often sets tanka apart from of earshot / the periodic blinking / of a night haiku. In speaking of tone, she notes that “the airplane, / not quite far enough away / to be as most important feature of a tanka is the rabbit’s close as the stars” (37). Naomi says “The night foot kick that often occurs in the last line” (48). airplane links the ear and the stars,” as indeed it I’m not sure that every tanka has a kick in the last does, but this is not a pivot line, because it means line, or even needs it, but they can be wonderful only one thing and works only as part of the first when they do. Later, she notes that “Haiku is three lines, both grammatically and imagistically. immediate, and tanka is nostalgic and To clarify, “of a night airplane, / not quite far reflective” (52). enough away / to be as close as the stars” doesn’t really make sense, but “empty / I wait to be 11. Naomi misquotes William Carlos filled / with possibility” does. Williams, who said “No ideas but in things.” To Naomi also compares this structure to the my knowledge, he did not say, as Naomi asserts, “turn” in sonnets (whether Italian or “No truth but in things.” The meanings are Elizabethan), but missteps, I think, when she significantly different. (53). refers to the “volta line” — my understanding is 12. In differentiating haiku and tanka, Naomi that the volta (which means “turn” in Italian) notes that “Haiku are concerned with sense happens between certain lines, and isn’t the line objects” (54) but then says “in haiku, it is as if the itself. Fortunately, Naomi ends this chapter with poet has blended with the subject, and only the several poems that do indeed have strong pivots, subject remains.” In this statement, I think it’s and hopefully the concept will be clear to the vital that it should have said “object” rather than perceptive reader. Another point I’m not sure I “subject,” in keeping with the overwhelming agree with, though, is at the start of the chapter tendency for haiku to be objective, not subjective. where she says the pivot line’s function “is to link Similarly, she later says “haiku is concerned with the outer image . . . to his or her inner thoughts the natural world” (56), but it’s really the seasonal and emotions” (35). Rather, I would say that a reference that haiku is after, and nature comes pivot might happen where the inner and outer are along for the ride (it’s a common linked, but I would not say that this is the pivot’s misunderstanding of haiku to think of it function. The pivot is just a change of meaning, superficially as a “nature” poem). She contrasts as in the word “time” in a phrase such as “killing this with tanka as dwelling on the human time flies” (like the zeugma of German poetics),
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 81 condition. I love, though, how she immediately list of “Sources” at the end of the book omits offers a haiku on the human condition and a many items that the text refers to. This particular tanka on nature to show that opposites can be quotation is from Goldstein’s translation, with done — although the “haiku” example may really Seishi Shinoda, of Takuboku’s Romaji Diary and be a senryu (“removal van / pulls away already Sad Toys (Rutland, Vermont: Tuttle, 1985, 40). cold / fills the room” by Jeffry Harpeng) and the minimalist “tanka” may really be a haiku 16. The chapter on Kyōka, or “Witty stretched into five lines (”slanted sun / of late Tanka” (87), provides a pleasing counterpoint to autumn / paints / the dry grass / burnished the more serious poems throughout the rest of gold” by Mary Mageau). the book. I appreciate Naomi’s quoting of M. Kei in calling this form “anti-tanka,” the way 13. We are told that “Haiku have to hit the senryu is often distinct from haiku, even if the target directly, whereas tanka have room to jump boundaries between them may be subject to to the ends of the universe before coming to the endless debate. point” (57). I get the intent here, but the comment about haiku seems to obscure the 17. A chapter on “Response Tanka” (95) tendency of haiku to employ implication and a introduces the idea of writing poems back and hinting at things rather than hitting the target forth between two poets, echoing the way waka directly. Still, I would say it’s true that haiku are was a kind of epistolary communication between more focused, whereas tanka can wander more. Japanese courtiers in centuries past, even if trysting and flirting are no longer the primary 14. The chapter on “The Varieties of Tanka” objectives today. This chapter also refers to offers a fresh take on different kinds of tanka, utamakura, or “poem pillows,” meaning place such as some that use quotation and allusion. names that carry rich resonances in Japanese However, she also refers to tanka collages, poetry. Naomi quotes her response-tanka partner montages, strings, and sequences (68), defining Sonja Arntzen here as saying “There are really their differences, but I would say that these are no place names in modern English with the same different ways of grouping tanka, and not really kind of richness in shared meaning” (96), but I different kinds of tanka themselves. She later would politely disagree. Niagara. Matterhorn. speak of “tanka prose,” but again, this is not Machu Picchu. Everest. Palestine. Grand really a different kind of tanka, but merely a Canyon. Or name just about any well-known city different use of tanka (the way haiku are “used” in in the world. New York. Rio. London. Soweto. haibun, even though they are not really different San Francisco. Sydney. Overtones abound. from haiku that do not appear in haibun). Speaking of definitions, though, Naomi does 18. Later in the “Response Tanka” chapter, offer a clear and concise differentiation of a Naomi quotes translator Sonja Arntzen as saying string versus a sequence of tanka. She says that a “Generally, composers of haiku and tanka in tanka string consists of poems on a single subject, English ignore most of the prosodic conventions whereas a tanka sequence “orders the stanzas in a in the Japanese poetic tradition” (104), but I find chronological dramatic order” (68). this hard to agree with. If Arntzen means syllabic conventions (or rather, following the rhythm of 15. Toward the end of the “Varieties of sounds, rather than syllables, in Japanese), then Tanka” chapter, Naomi quotes Sanford Goldstein yes, I would agree. Writing in a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable as saying “Poetry must not be what is usually pattern in English nearly always produces a poem called poetry. It must be an exact report, an that’s significantly longer in content than a honest diary of the changes in a man’s emotional Japanese tanka, which is why we often ignore life” (73). However, she is actually quoting such patterns (this is why both Tanka Canada Takuboku, in Goldstein’s translation. Sources are and the Japan Tanka Poets Club advocate 21 or not provided for any of the quotations, and the fewer syllables for haiku in English). Rather than
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 82 “ignoring” Japanese prosody, this is a necessary no mention of who actually did. She offers this adaptation — in order to follow it more closely. word’s rich overtones of meaning as an example Likewise, we hardly avoid other aspects of of yojō, or excess/lingering meaning and prosody, let alone “most” of them, because we reverberations. However, “tundra” is really a can pay attention to assonance, consonance, poem by Cor van den Heuvel, and I know I said sound, rhythm, diction, tone, stress, emphasis, it was Cor’s. It’s such a pivotal poem in English- focus, contrast, and harmony — and many other language haiku (from the 1960s and anthologized techniques — just as fully as Japanese does, even if repeatedly and prominently since then) that I’m the languages do have their differences. And of surprised she didn’t remember that it wasn’t course the quotation begs the question, which mine, or didn’t say who really wrote it — and now Japanese poetic tradition? Even just within tanka, unsuspecting readers won’t know the original and waka before that, the tradition stretches author. more than a millennium, and this poetry has varied widely over such a long time. 22. The book concludes with short homages to Naomi’s haiku teachers (me included, for 19. A chapter on “Ekphrastic Tanka” (107), which I’m grateful) (131) and a set of “Tanka or writing tanka in response to other arts (mostly Exercises” (138), which help to move the reader paintings), broadens the reader’s uses of tanka, or from reading to doing. Effective details like this means of inspiration. No images are included in make the book personal and practical. this chapter, which would have been a pleasing luxury, but the images referred to are readily 23. As already mentioned, the “Sources” at discoverable online. Likewise, a chapter on “Tan the end (140) miss many texts referred to Renga” (121) gives readers yet more to explore, throughout the book (especially in the “Japanese this time in a collaboration by poets within a Sensitivities” chapter). In the “Periodicals” single poem — usually the first three lines written section, the Japan Tanka Poets Club’s The Tanka by one poet, followed by two lines by another, Journal is a glaring omission, nor are such leading making a whole poem. As usual, Naomi provides tanka journals as Skylark and Moonbathing plenty of helpful examples. mentioned, yet Modern English Tanka is mentioned, despite being defunct for some years. Nor is the 20. A chapter near the book’s end covers seminal website “Tanka Online” mentioned in “Japanese Sensitivities,” and explores such the “Web Resources” section, among other vital aesthetic terms as wabi-sabi, aware, yojō, makoto, resources. The Tanka Society of America is at kokoro, and more, but the chapter might have least listed here, but it seems clear from the book been improved by providing sample poems to that this organization and its history of journal illustrate each concept. Here, too, the chapter and anthology publications have had essentially quotes from many sources yet they are absent no impact on Naomi, which is a missed from the “Sources” list at the end of the book. opportunity. It seems that she must have never For example, there are mentions of Eric been a member, and readers can only wonder Sherlock, Garr Reynolds, and Jiro Harada, how the book might have been refined or among others, who are given no follow-up in the expanded with the additional influence of the “Sources” listings. It would be nice to know more society and the other journals I’ve mentioned about them. here — among others. These resources end up getting a short shrift in that they are more 21. In describing the term yojō, Naomi refers prominent and influential than this book would to me, saying, “Michael Dylan Welch, in a suggest. lecture, once wrote the word ‘tundra’ on the board as a possible one-word haiku” (127) — Ultimately, this is a groundbreaking book, incorrectly implying that I wrote it, and making because there have been practically no guidebooks devoted exclusively to writing tanka
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 83 before this, unlike the proliferation of books, both I read Han Shan, good and questionable, about how to write haiku. poems from Cold Mountain So this book may be considered a first step, and and I think in many ways it is therefore tentative. I’ve of all the million bones outlined some of the ways the book might have picked clean since then been refined, but one aspect that I’m very glad for, and would leave just the way it is, is the And after so deft a return to mortality, author’s welcoming and breezy style, which McCall continues with makes the writing of tanka poetry very inviting indeed. so it is midnight and I write poems what else can I do? I cannot rescue the dark drowning children
One aspect of Fieldgates invites an interesting Review: Joy McCall, Fieldgates, question about tanka sequences in English. Not tanka sequences all 5-line units within McCall’s sequences are stand-alone tanka. In some cases, a pronoun takes the place of its referent, such that without Reviewed by Maxianne Berger context, it cannot be fully understood. Consider, for example, the fifth of seven in “Milky Way”: Fieldgates; tanka sequences and they flew out by Joy McCall and drifted, dancing with an afterword by Liam Wilkinson in the air ISBN-13: 978-1539573869 then they settled 171 pp in the silver birch tree $15.00 USD (print) or $5.00 USD (Kindle) Even the title doesn’t necessarily identify Joy McCall has not only been writing tanka “they,” introduced in the tanka immediately for some sixty years, she is also very prolific. preceding. If this tanka were made to stand Fieldgates is her fifth collection published by alone, however, it is so rich that readers will Keibooks in the past five years (2013 – 2017), and happily supply whatever referent they find within a sixth book, an exchange sequence of one their own dreaming room. hundred tanka with co-author Claire Everett, But the question remains: in a tanka appeared in 2014 from Skylark Publishing. sequence, how far away from “stand-alone” can a Fieldgates gathers ninety-nine sequences, these 5-line stanza be? Poets writing in English have varying in length from four to thirteen tanka. mostly abandoned the 31-sound-unit, fixed form McCall’s topics include the landscape around that defines Japanese tanka. We tend to see it Norfolk, its flora and fauna, and those who more as a genre, yes in 5 brief lines, but a genre people her life. These usually gather, juxtaposed that strives for an impact similar to what is within a same sequence. Take, for example, achieved by our Japanese counterparts in their ‘violets and bones.’ It ranges widely from “I am careful shaping of meaning and allusion. So making poems,” through people “working and when even that is abandoned for the tanka that sleeping / and fighting and dying” to migrants in make up a sequence in English, why is it still sinking boats, and “wild violets / in the considered a tanka sequence, but also, does that garden[.]” Tanka 6 alludes to 8th – 9th-century matter? China.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 84 In the occasional sequence where the dancing[.]” Most striking, though, in terms of components aren’t ‘strictly’ tanka (for which we using experience as matter for poetry, are the haven’t got any ‘strict’ definition), the text can personal triumphs in ‘window,’ and of knowing readily be set up as a tanka prose, as in this that these are triumphs. excerpt from ‘pilgrimage” where I’ve recast the first three tanka within a single paragraph. the first time I held a cup Reaching a place at nightfall, we can sleep. got it It’s a simple place, miles from nowhere. to my mouth There’s a room, there is a bed, there is soup and drank and bread and wine, and a kindly host. So far, we have travelled light — a steady walking Joy McCall’s acceptance of life, with its through hills and valleys, following the trail. glories as well as its inevitable cycles and ends, comes through with precision in ‘all fall down’ so many near the end of the book. pilgrims before us down the years inside me and we two, going a small child, laughing to find the shrine ring around the rosy and the woman, knowing In this sequence, as throughout the we must all fall down collection, the quality of the phrasing is high. As such, even where I experience no frisson of tanka However the poet in McCall, I feel, is best per se (if such can be defined) the 5-line units have conveyed in her sequence ‘bowls.’ well-deserved places in the poem. McCall often drives her sequences with one bowl sits purposeful energy through repetition. All six quietly doing nothing tanka in the sequence ‘how long’ begin with that just holding phrase: “how long / walking through the corn”; precious things, the dreams “how long/ while the blackberries[.]” In ‘seesaw,’ settling, sleeping there McCall uses a present participle in lines 1 and 3 of all four tanka (well, a gerund in line 3 of tanka It is a metaphor, nothing is overtly stated, but 4): “straining / to hear the lark’s song / hearing in my reading this bowl is a vehicle for poetry, nothing”; “dreaming/ a long shelf of books/ a and thus, Joy McCall must surely be describing clearing mind[.]” And again, the ‘one woman’ of herself. that title begins each tanka: “one woman’s man” “one woman’s room[.]” Biographical information in the collection informs unknowing readers that McCall is a paraplegic who uses a wheelchair. This fact is easily forgotten as poem after poem flies freely with its language and imagination. But every here and there the poet does let us into that corner of her life. The chaplain in the poem of that title sits silently by her hospital bed, and gives “no magic words / to take away the pain[.]” In the sequence ‘for Jake,’ McCall reveals that “he makes me dream / of moving, of walking / of
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 85 Why the poem’s placement is of importance, Review: For Instance, Sweetheart: is that love is a recurrent theme of the book, and Forty Years of Love Songs (1970 – specifically between these two fine poets. The tanka is brought to the reader’s attention by 2010) being a poem about memory and mortality, which are prominent themes of the collection. Reviewed by Patricia Prime In the opening section, ‘From Meeting to Marriage and the Birth of Our Children,’ Kawano Yūko and Nagata Kazuhiro Kawano Yūko explains the importance of their Translated by Amelia Fielden first meeting at the Friendship Hall of Kyoto Ginninderra Press, Australia, 2017 University:
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 86 wistfully obviously in the womb-like darkness I can’t escape of foetuses from your strong hands kicking each other, grasping my shoulders, we share embraces from the power of a man
The detail in the tanka is crucial to the tone Nagata Kazuhiro responds with his own of the tale. sequence of tanka, this being the final poem: Other passages gather momentum by composing interesting details, such as we read in casual words, ‘Our Days As Youthful Father and Mother,’ but they came back to me which opens with a sequence of tanka: the first as I crossed by Kawano Yūko and the second by Nagata the watershed Kazuhiro: of dawn darkness
did you just now The next section, ‘This Nothing But This, Is step over a small puddle? Our Family,’ revolves around the growing the spoon children: I am polishing has clouded by chance The feeling of powerlessness that they were children I had born. It was the powerlessness now, I felt about my own existence. However, with poverty dispelled, children are children. They were not my the baby carriage clones. goes along under a hot sky of cumulonimbus clouds Another section, ‘America, From the Windows of the Green House,’ is about their son Kawano Yūko is overcome by the Jun. In ‘SOD Signals,’ Jun gets into several fights responsibilities of motherhood as she explains: with the boys in his American school. Kawano Yūko has this to say after a discussion with her I realize now that my way of child-rearing son: was somewhat of a shambles. When we had this discussion, I was really At the time, we were living in a very small surprised, even a bit shocked. How stringent house right in the middle of a row of three boys’ society is, I thought. It sounded like a Kyoto terraced houses. My husband had mini version of adult male society, to me. gone back to university and was working as an unpaid researcher — there was no In ‘A Parent As a Friend,’ Kawano Yūko remuneration, only the title of ‘researcher.’ realises that the boy needs his father to guide him in right and wrong: Inevitably, quarrels arise, as both partners become tired and irritable, working long hours, Eleven years old. Almost pubescent. Jun, at having sleepless nights with young children and the end of his childhood, needed his father. trying to write. In her following sequence of tanka, Kawano Yūko writes about their quarrels: In ‘Days When the Children Were Absent,’ Kawano Yūko describes a birthday treat while the children are away at camp:
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 87 It was a real birthday treat, something I twenty-something time. Even since marrying, I’d hadn’t enjoyed for a long while, to sit moved thirteen times.” Her following sequence of watching a film just with my husband, from tanka are compressed, indeed spring-loaded. evening until late at night, without worrying Consider this tanka: about the children. saying that we’ll die The collection is not all married bliss and in this house, you know fondest memories, however. The section ‘In Our he’s begun Frantically Busy Daily Life,’ begins with this chopping useless branches tanka by Kawano Yūko about never-ending daily off the palm tree chores and Nagata Kazuhiro responds with his tanka about the family being together: Nagata Kazuhiro’s following verses point the poetic finger at his wife in a surprising way. His washing the rice last verse reads: daily cooking it by your side I tell you how many tens of thousands just that I’m drunk more days remain, I wonder and ring off — so the receiver that night this one time is a heavy lump in my hand in the world, my family is together The collection builds surprise from one watching the rain chapter to another, pairing seemingly different on the rain eaves elements to create new effect. ‘The Onset of Illness’ is a devastating realisation that Kawano ‘Tears Which Flowed Sideways’ is a passage Yūko is seriously ill. The section begins with the about ageing. Kawano Yūko wonders how following two tanka: the first by Kawano Yūko women can age gracefully. She writes: ‘Perhaps and the second by Nagata Kazuhiro: by way of eradicating all excess coquetry, fawning, and gestures, one’s persona could embracing appear freshly attractive.’ the ruin I was Incidental household chores of everyday life at that time creep up in ‘The Tiny Walnut Room,’ when the you wept, you could father is laughed at by the children: do nothing but weep
Amid the kids’ jeering voices and scrutiny, he “if I die, sat, glowering. He didn’t explain why. He you’ll drown in the bath” — looked as if he’d closed his ears and was that’s true waiting for the topic of conversation to move I will probably on from the egg cracking. drown in saké
Throughout this passage, Kawano Yūko has Here the poems are related in diary fashion a raconteur’s impulse, with wide-ranging covering the period 25 December 1999 to 25 humanistic voracity, tempered by careful October 2000, when Kawano Yūko has been attention to line and detail. diagnosed with breast cancer. Nagata Kazuhiro’s In ‘Moving House,’ Kawano Yūko writes final tanka is heart-breaking: “We were going to be moving house again. How many times would that make it. This must be the
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 88 in the plum grove I’ve brought with me, with its smattering of white to this northern hot spring and of crimson blooms, the person you say how short who wanted to seclude herself has been our time together during her post-illness phase
Other associations with the disease are just as ‘Cancer Reappears’ opens with these fine fraught, as we see in ‘Suffering From Cancer.’ tanka, the first by Kawano Yūko and the second The opening passage is dreadful in its simplicity: by Nagata Kazuhiro:
Two years ago, on 22 September, I was every day diagnosed with breast cancer. Two nights I laugh, again and again previously, I happened to feel in my left so that I can leave you armpit and find there three lumps the size of my laughing voice eggs. and my laughing face
As much as this section leaps sure-footedly each day passing from one association to the next, others achieve a subtracts one day hypnotic rhythm through he reassurance of the from the time tanka. In ‘The Sleepy Person’ we see Nagata I will have with you — Kazuhiro as a ‘botanical ignoramus,’ brought to soon the summer solstice understand more about plants through his wife’s love of nature. As she says: In ‘My Illness’ Kawano Yūko writes touchingly about the years after her diagnosis. But, no mistake about it, he is still quite The mortal and the sacred, the shape words give ignorant. Recently he told his students, as if to sound, silence, light, life and death; there is an he were an expert interested in such things, order — whether real or illusion — that creates a “This is a spring wild flower called nogeshi. pause in the chaos and rush of time, a The difference between that and autumn punctuation in which suddenly a glimpse of nogeshi is that the spring variety blooms with wonder can flash across the consciousness. It is its head drooping.” However, what he was there in Kawano Yūko’s writing. The following talking about was the difference between two tanka reflects her spirituality: other flowers, varieties of asters. I will go on living, This section is followed by three tanka live my life right through sequences. In the first one, Kawano Yūko writes to the end — about her time as a wife, when she says: after that, it will be up to you what you do these last five years I have spent beside you It is a spirituality that is deeply human. trying Nagata Kazuhiro’s following sequence moves to prolong my life across time, making the tragedy of the story one day at a time timeless, as we see in this tanka:
Nagata Kazuhiro responds with this lovely tanka:
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 89 her tanka will stay heaviness of this meditation on whether the and probably I’ll cry actions Nagata Kazuhiro took were correct or over those tanka, not, is instantly undercut by his obvious desire to when the day comes, sometimes help his wife as much as he was able. He writes in that sometimes I fear so much the last paragraph:
Kawano Yūko returns from hospital in ‘The Perhaps it was both of us stubbornly refusing Rice Bran Bed.’ She deals delicately, intelligently, to give an exaggerated importance to the with her material. Her spoken words are reality of breast cancer. We didn’t want to be recorded in the last tanka: defeated by words. We insisted on acting as if we were above consciously grappling with the my body is no longer actual situation of her disease. a body which can go anywhere — ‘From Soon the Summer Solstice — Nagata the words of this body Kazuhiro’ is the final lengthy section. Kawano leaving you behind Yūko’s mental condition becomes unstable, her depression and resentment increases and her With ‘House Calls,’ Kawano Yūko creates a anger explodes. Through it all, he continues to contrast between the unbelievable nature of write tanka: dying and its absolute reality, a feeling that rings true to the experience. A passage such as the sorrowing following shows how even the help of others over my failure becomes strange as one waits and resists the to lament coming death. “I don’t know myself how much along with her longer I can live. People say ‘until the time the she has gone to sleep cosmos blooms,’ perhaps you’ll get through to next year,’ ‘until this time next year,’ and so on; The book is available to English-only readers but it’s not something I can know.” due to the translator, Amelia Fielden, who is a The following tanka reveals her husband’s long-standing, accomplished translator of deep love and sorrow, even as he returns to work Japanese tanka into English, including previous and leaves her on her own: books by Kawano Yūko and due to her personal relationship with both wife and husband, authors today my husband of this book of poetry and prose, giving her a three times in tears said unique position to be the translator of this “please don’t die,” collaborative work. Fielden’s tribute tanka ‘Time and three times in tears saying Passes,’* on p.8, was written at the time of her “please don’t die,” went off to his school friend’s passing:
‘Last Writings and Time That Was Left’ Nagatani . . . discloses her death: “At seven minutes past eight my eager mind, my fond heart in the evening, on 12 August, Kawano Yūko died no longer seek from breast cancer.” the way to the house In ‘The Time That Was Left — Nagata by the bamboo grove Kazuhiro,’ covers the period 22 September 2000, when Kawano Yūko was diagnosed with cancer For Instance, Sweetheart is a book one constantly to the day before her surgery. The modest voice wants to return to, packed as it is with emotion and simple presentation of this section stands in and heartfelt prose and poetry. I believe it contrast to the gravity of the subject matter. The presents quite a challenge, but one that is
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 90 rewarded by its insight into marriage, family, within, making this a unique reading experience illness and, finally, death. to savour. This collection obstinately assumes the need We hope you will be patient with the for tanka and prose to move the human heart, to downloading of number one. ai li has tried her confront and examine relationships, pain, best to ensure that your waiting time has been heartbreak and loss, but not to be imprisoned by shortened by as much as she possibly can. them, and the hearten the reader to continue his We hope you will immerse yourself in the or her journey. storytelling within and that these stories will take you all on an explorative journey filled with *First publication of the tanka was in Mint wonder, contemplation and ultimately of Tea from a Copper Pot & other tanka tales. interconnectedness. To quote our former art director — vive la cherita! Thank you for all your good wishes and kind support, ANNOUNCEMENTS ai li and Larry Kimmel editors the cherita Atlas Poetica will publish short announcements in any language up to 300 words in length on a space available basis. Announcements may be edited for brevity, clarity, grammar, or any other reason. Send announcements in the body of an email to: [email protected] — do not Contemporary Haibun Online send attachments. Published
The team of Bob Lucky and Ray Rasmussen is pleased to announce the release of Contemporary The Cherita Haibun Online 13.2, July 2017 for your reading pleasure. Please check out the current issue to We are more than proud to announce the enjoy a stimulating assortment of haibun, tanka arrival of our bumper inaugural edition on our prose, articles, commentary, and haibun news. website www.thecherita.com in time for the Writers are invited to submit haibun and cherita’s official twentieth birthday 22 june 1997 tanka prose during the next reading cycle for – 22 june 2017. consideration for the next issue of CHO. Please consult our submission guidelines. the cherita : your storybook journal volume one : number one ~Bob Lucky early summer 2017 General Editor Contemporary Haibun Online ai li has selected 76 fine and inspiring cherita poems from writers and poets from the UK, USA, Sri Lanka, Singapore, India, Australia, New Zealand, Portugal, Romania, Ireland and Canada. The same number of images plus one have been selected by ai li to complement the cherita
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 91 Educational Use Notice Editorial Biographies
Keibooks of Perryville, Maryland, USA, M. Kei is the editor of Atlas Poetica and was the publisher of the journal, Atlas Poetica : A Journal of editor-in-chief of Take Five : Best Contemporary World Tanka, is dedicated to tanka education in Tanka. He is a tall ship sailor in real life and has schools and colleges, at every level. It is our published nautical novels featuring a gay intention and our policy to facilitate the use of protagonist, Pirates of the Narrow Seas. His most Atlas Poetica and related materials to the recent poetry collection is January, A Tanka Diary. maximum extent feasible by educators at every level of school and university studies. Educators, without individually seeking toki is a published poet and editorial assistant for permission from the publisher, may use Atlas Keibooks. Born and raised in the Pacific Poetica : A Journal of World Tanka’s online digital Northwest US, toki often writes poetry informed editions and print editions as primary or ancillary by the experience of that region: the labyrinthine teaching resources. Copyright law ‘Fair Use’ confines of the evergreen forests, the infinite guidelines and doctrine should be interpreted vastness of the sea and inclement sky, and the very liberally with respect to Atlas Poetica precisely liminal spaces in between. toki’s poetry can be on the basis of our explicitly stated intention found online and in print, with work published in herein. This statement may be cited as an Atlas Poetica, The Bamboo Hut, and Poetry effective permission to use Atlas Poetica as a text or Nook. resource for studies. Proper attribution of any excerpt to Atlas Poetica is required. This statement applies equally to digital resources and print copies of the journal. Individual copyrights of poets, authors, artists, etc., published in Atlas Poetica are their own property and are not meant to be compromised in any way by the journal’s liberal policy on ‘Fair Use.’ Any educator seeking clarification of our policy for a particular use may email the Editor of Atlas Poetica at [email protected]. We welcome innovative uses of our resources for Our ‘butterfly’ is actually an Atlas moth (Attacus tanka education. atlas), the largest butterfly / moth in the world. It comes from the tropical regions of Asia. Image Atlas Poetica from the 1921 Les insectes agricoles d’époque. Keibooks P O Box 516 Perryville, MD 21903 AtlasPoetica.org
Atlas Poetica • Issue 29 • Page 92 Publications by Keibooks Journals
Forthcoming Atlas Poetica : A Journal of World Tanka
on the cusp encore, a year of tanka, by Joy McCall M. Kei’s Poetry Collections Black Genji and Other Contemporary Tanka, by Matsukaze January, A Tanka Diary
Slow Motion : The Log of a Chesapeake Bay Skipjack Anthologies tanka and short forms
Neon Graffiti : Tanka of Urban Life Heron Sea : Short Poems of the Chesapeake Bay tanka and short forms Bright Stars, An Organic Tanka Anthology (Vols. 1 – 7)
Take Five : Best Contemporary Tanka (Vol. 4) M. Kei’s Novels Fire Pearls (Vols. 1 – 2) : Short Masterpieces of the Heart Pirates of the Narrow Seas 1 : The Sallee Rovers Pirates of the Narrow Seas 2 : Men of Honor Pirates of the Narrow Seas 3 : Iron Men Tanka Collections Pirates of the Narrow Seas 4 : Heart of Oak
October Blues and Other Contemporary Tanka, Man in the Crescent Moon : A Pirates of the Narrow by Matsukaze Seas Adventure The Sea Leopard : A Pirates of the Narrow Seas Warp and Weft, Tanka Threads, by Debbie Strange Adventure
flowers to the torch : American Tanka Prose, by peter Fire Dragon fiore
fieldgates, tanka sequences, by Joy McCall on the cusp, a year of tanka, by Joy McCall rising mist, fieldstones, by Joy McCall hedgerows, tanka pentaptychs, by Joy McCall circling smoke, scattered bones, by Joy McCall
Tanka Left Behind 1968 : Tanka from the Notebooks of Sanford Goldstein, by Sanford Goldstein Tanka Left Behind : Tanka from the Notebooks of Sanford Goldstein, by Sanford Goldstein This Short Life, Minimalist Tanka, by Sanford Goldstein