ATLAS POETICA A Journal of World Tanka

Number 32

M. Kei, editor Grunge, editorial assistant

2018 Keibooks, Perryville, Maryland, USA KEIBOOKS P O Box 516 Perryville, Maryland, USA 21903 AtlasPoetica.org

Atlas Poetica A Journal of World Tanka

Copyright © 2018 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 We do not publish haiku, except as incidental to a tanka collage or other mixed form work.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: 978-1986041584 ISBN-10: 1986041581

Also available for Kindle

AtlasPoetica.org TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editorial Ray Spitzenberger ...... 71 Kyoka, M. Kei ...... 5 Richard Grahn ...... 71 Letters to the Editor ...... 6 Samantha Sirimanne Hyde ...... 72 Educational Use Notice ...... 92 Sanford Goldstein ...... 73 Steve Black ...... 74, 75 Poetry Tamara K. Walker ...... 76, 77 ai li ...... 9, 10, 11 Tanja Trček ...... 78 Alexander Jankiewicz ...... 12 Tiffany Shaw-Diaz ...... 79, 80 Alexis Rotella ...... 13, 14, 15, 16, 17 Tigz De Palma ...... 81 Amelia Fielden ...... 50 Thomas Martin ...... 81, 82 Anne Anthony ...... 17 Tracy Davidson ...... 83 Autumn Noelle Hall ...... 17, 18, 19, 20, 21 Vijay Joshi ...... 83 Barun Saha ...... 23 Bill Albert ...... 24 Articles Carol Raisfeld ...... 25, 26 Finding Delight in the Flaws of the World, Alexis Charles Harmon ...... 27 Rotella ...... 84 Clair Charpentier ...... 84 The Music of Ryuka, Liam Wilkinson ...... 84 Dave Baldwin ...... 28 Review: sweetgrass and thyme, by Joy McCall, Dave Read ...... 29 reviewed by Patricia Prime ...... 85 Debbie Strange ...... 30, 31 Don Miller ...... 21, 32 Announcements ...... 87 Elizabeth Howard ...... 32 Geoffrey Winch...... 34 Grunge ...... 33 Janet Brof ...... 34 Jeffrey Woodward ...... 35 Jenny Ward Angyal ...... 37, 41 Jim Doss ...... 38 Joanna Ashwell ...... 40 John Gonzalez ...... 40 John S. Gilbertson...... 41 Joy McCall ...... 41, 42, 43, 44 Larry Kimmel ...... 44, 45 Lorne Henry ...... 46 M. Kei ...... 46 Margaret Owen Ruckert ...... 47 Maryalicia Post ...... 48 Matt Cariello ...... 49 Michael H. Lester ...... 49, 50 Neal Whitman ...... 50 Patricia Prime ...... 51, 53, 54 Paul Mercken ...... 56, 58, 59, 62 Paweł Markiewicz ...... 65, 67, 68 Dr. Randy Brooks ...... 69

Atlas Poetica • Issue 31 • Page 3

Charles Harmon, a newcomer to our pages, Kyoka offers a humorous take on King Arthur that will be immediately understood by fans of Monty Here we are at our tenth anniversary. It was Python and the Holy Grail. Americans will be ten years ago, Spring, 2008, that we brought out equally amused by Grunge’s combining of two the first issue of Atlas Poetica. Publishing twice a well-known pop culture references: Smokey the year, over the course of time we expanded to Bear and the many Hollywood movies that three times a year, and now roughly four times a feature a “chosen one” as hero. Harmon utilizes year on an organic schedule. We increased in the classic kyoka technique of refusing to take an size, but have made only modest price increases ancient tradition seriously, while Grunge treats — with approximately a thousand tanka or more the subject with mock seriousness. Both are per issue, along with articles, reviews, and parodies, not just of the subject matter, but of announcements, Atlas Poetica provides a deep and tanka itself. broad view of modern tanka literature. Michael H. Lester, who is editor of our In keeping with that spirit, in the current Rhyming Kyoka special feature to appear shortly issue we focus on kyoka, tanka’s lesser-known on the website, offers us a sequence of rhymed cousin. Kyoka has the same form as tanka in kyoka. Kyoka, with its humorous, even Japanese, but its content is very different. Kyoka scatological subject matter, is very near to the delights in wordplay, humor, satire, whimsy, and native English limerick. Each is a five line poem parody; historically, it took up subjects deemed made up of two short lines and three long lines. too vulgar for tanka. It treated serious subjects By adding rhyme to his kyoka, Lester skates very lightly, and light subjects seriously, creating near to limerick, and yet, the resulting poems are humor by the juxtaposition of the unexpected most definitely kyoka and not limericks. mood and subject. As the old waka underwent Not all is kyoka. We offer, as usual, a wide reform and transformation during the Meiji Era variety of tanka, tanka prose, tanka sequences, to become tanka, subject matter and treatment cherita, reviews, non-fiction articles, and also opened up. When the outlet provided by announcements. Tanka in translation includes kyoka was no longer needed, it nearly went German and Dutch, while in non-fiction extinct. remarks, Alexis Rotella offers her thoughts on If anything is possible in tanka, why bother kyoka and Paweł Markiewicz illustrates how the with kyoka? One of the virtues of kyoka is to storytelling cherita can create and transmogrify loosen up poets and readers who may be too fairy tales. stuck on the idea that tanka should, must, or ought An added feature in this issue are several to be something in particular, something that puts letters to the editor with their well-wishes for our limits on the form and excludes certain subjects, tenth anniversary. authors, and moods. By having the freedom to label something ‘kyoka’ instead of ‘tanka,’ we ~K~ give permission to ourselves and others to experiment, innovate, and have fun. Serious M. Kei subjects — cancer, scattering ashes, and broken Editor, Atlas Poetica hearts — are abundant in tanka, but we can’t be sad or serious all the time. Poetry is playful as well as eloquent, but all too often Very Serious Adults Sunglint on the Amazon River, Brazil. forget that our happiness does not depend exclusively on our ability to work; it also depends Cover courtesy of the Earth Observatory, NASA. on our ability to play. Since we are poets, we play

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 5 tanka education you have given me through your Letters to the Editor constant inclusion of fresh, honest, edgy contributor work and well-researched, clearly written articles. You have afforded me both the Dear K, courage and the opportunity to experiment and push my own work, which in turn has been Congratulations on the 10th anniversary of instrumental in my growth as a poet. Atlas Poetica and the issuance of ATPO 31. I have Thank you so much for the great honor of just ordered my copy from Amazon and will have including my tanka front-and-center in the it in hand on February 2. I am honored and very ATPO 31 release announcement! It is my much appreciate that you have chosen to include privilege to be a part of your beautiful “big, big my tanka in the release announcement along journal!” with my poet friend and mentor, Autumn Noelle Hall, and the other fine poets. Always in awe, At her suggestion, and in furtherance of my very enjoyable collaboration with her, I have Autumn included Autumn’s congratulatory and thank you USA email along with mine. As I mentioned to you previously, you have been very instrumental in boosting my confidence in my writing and in my growth as a poet. A decade of a mighty fine publication — With gratitude, congratulations, Kei! And thank you for publishing some of my Michael work over the years . . . _/|\_ USA With kind regards,

Bill Waters USA Dear K,

Congratulations and Happy 10th! I think that’s the tin or aluminum anniversary, traditionally . . . but I’ve ordered a copy of 31 Dear Kei, instead! Stepping down after my own brief 2- year editing stint, I have to say I am truly I write to bring attention to one single poem impressed by your stamina! But beyond that, I which I wish I had written. It’s the tanka I have am amazed that you have continued to produce tried all my life to write, and could not. It’s a such an innovative, high quality journal for 10 tanka which could just as easily be an old waka years without so much as a pause for breath. from the pens of Ryokan or Shiki or Saigyo or Atlas Poetica is always my number one Teika. It’s the poem that cuts through the ages recommend to tanka poets; it has become my go- from then to now, in five small lines, while still to resource for understanding what is happening honouring the tradition of tanka. It’s the right at the forefront of English language tanka. I am shape and number of syllables, and it sings the proud to have had work included throughout way tanka should. It holds pretty well all of the much of that decade; and I am grateful for the

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 6 Japanese aesthetics from the wabi-sabi’s fading Dear Editor, beauty to the yūgen that inspires the Noh plays, to the simplicity of the iki. It holds the heartbreak of First and foremost, I trust that you are miyabi. keeping well and enjoying your sailing! I am I imagine that some western tanka poets may almost lost for words. How do I thank you disagree about the wonder of this little poem. I sincerely for yet again granting me the joy and know that some feel that we in the west should be privilege of having my Tanka published in such moving away from the old ways of waka towards an outstanding publication? a new kind of tanka. I can only write for myself By-the-way, I only started writing Tanka in when I say that if we are going to borrow December 2017. When I counted how many you another country’s traditional ways with poetry have accepted for publication in ATPO 32 I that go back so many centuries, then we should almost fell off my chair — thank you once again. honour the shape and form of them. I don’t I bought a copy of Side by Side — a always write in those traditional ways. I wish I magnificent publication — two great writers that did. I have struggled for decades with trying to compliment each other beautifully! marry the old and the new, the East and the West, and I have failed. Wishing, Light, Love and Peace. But this poet, pretty new to the tanka world, has done it, and made it look easy : John Gonzalez Ipswich, England I weep not for my tired, aging body I weep because I can no longer hear the wood thrush sing Dear Mr. Kei, Can’t you hear that singing from some hermit hut in the Japanese hills? I am so excited to receive your email! Take a bow, Michael Lester. Thank you for kindly accepting all the Joy McCall poems/prose. It’s a privilege to be published in Norwich, England Atlas Poetica!

Regards, Barun Saha India

Dear M. Kei,

I thoroughly enjoyed issue 31. I was particularly moved by Bill Albert’s set adrift, and L’Estranger. As well, I am a big fan of both Matsukaze and Brendon Slater and always enjoy reading their work.

Sincerely, Tigz De Palma Balearic Islands, Spain

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 7

finding a room ai li for the night we are louder than the rain you say sorry with your eyes i see that now you take off 25 years on my bra with great care but it is too late then go on to tear hymen folding a paper boat for the rose petals i collected a new romance it goes west for you you call me up and i go east on a bad line and start crying rushing to be home to be in your bedroom shooting star she is smiling after shooting star into the camera from your window as you break her little finger behind her back i am sitting again on the porch with the windfall a night of stars how many years has it been i’m up on the roof since we left? holding up a piece of sky with my dreams i find my dancing shoes our old ballroom i wish you love . . . closed that old song for years me on a bench looking out to sea i had something to say to you but you started i take my hat taking off your shirt and gloves the words can wait for a walk and let them warm me

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 9 you said the quietness of love we would grow old together sitting under sitting on the back porch a new moon you were moss to my lichen our auras the empty years bleed touching

~Singapore and London, England blind date we’re meeting under artificial light i will look older my nipples were sore after you left homesick cherita and tanka teeth marks staking out your claim ai li eternity another war looms i don’t need to be loved for that length of time mother on a train a minute or two home with my brother would be heaven the station platform empty now you don’t touch me anymore in old age even when the ground is white comes a robin and i feel his little feet i walk on my snow into space i no longer own not even passing each other the echoes at the blue hour your eyes hungry mine finishing my greens are blind at childhood’s dining table i look back now and miss we are tethered only our souls the formica of comfort days are free to wander mother’s voice through meadowsweet strong in the kitchen whispering stay

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 10 on where the house was a still night tall weeds and grass some lullaby the ghost coming from of a songbird a faraway place i cannot hear fast losing track the garden gate of my early life but for i remembered the black and white photographs is missing that arrested youth so is in the wall calendar its moment of glory of eternal springs swaying palms the keys handed over my sarong hydrangeas in full bloom a rhapsody a summer made of tropical colour for love frangipani in my hair before the war

~Singapore and London, England in this hall of sorrows someone is not crying anymore she lights joss and incense drowns her cherita light there are clouds ai li in your afternoon of reading old love letters that darken with the dusk caring for you was easy caring for myself ancestor worship was left to the angels i’m in the hall whose wings of memories i felt cradling me through storms with my lone voice inviting them to come home

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 11 she earned her right to shine wrote Summers At the Bus Terminal 55 years on no one has come close Alexander Jankiewicz to her aura of white light I’m on my way to work when I see an old and warmth beggar sitting on the sidewalk with a sign: for Marilyn “PLEASE HELP.” I drop some loose change into the empty coffee can placed at his feet. We make eye contact. I say good morning and notice the big tear in the army jacket he’s wearing. so much I think about him the remainder of the day left to do — wondering who he is and the story he’s left life to live behind. I picture him as a forgotten war hero no one cares about. I wonder how he got to where a lighthouse he is. to switch on from her wheelchair I see the old man again the next morning just as a man in a suit carrying a briefcase is running past him. I watch as loose change falls out of the man’s pocket. He stops and turns around but teaching then continues running. The old man stands up to collect the fallen coins. When I reach him, I the blind children say good morning. He replies, “Yes, sir,” and to dance gives me a salute. I put a bill into the can. He then says, “They’re singing for me, you know.” I suddenly the dark have no idea what he means. A few steps later, I is rich notice the loud cooing of pigeons. I turn around with possibilities and find the old man still looking at me. He nods his head up and down enthusiastically and offers ~Singapore and London, England a big smile.

picking up ai li is a Straits Chinese short form poet from London and Singapore who writes about Life, Love and Loss bringing healing and prayer to her where others leave off poems. The creator of cherita, editor and publisher of the cherita, dreams founding editor and publisher of still, moving into breath and dew-on- lost on a path line, she is also an evidential spiritualist medium, an urban waiting to be found photographer, and a surrealist collage painter. Find her essence in the quiet of her inner rooms at: https://www.amazon.com/ai-li/e/ B0080X6ROC/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1469884842&sr=1-2-ent ~Superior, Wisconsin, USA

Alex is an ESL instructor currently residing in Wisconsin.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 12 First date Kyoka all he has to offer a rickety Alexis Rotella elevator ride to the stars

She finally lands a sugar daddy The cat squeezing the Charmin who stole the highlight my aunt’s tongue of her days I offer it a sardine

He splurges on a Central Park carriage horse Morbidly obese that drops a man devours them off all the coconut shrimp at a fleabag hotel a heart attack sitting on his shoulder

Easter lunch how many more times He shows up will the naval cadet in coat and tails ma’am me his plumage to death? ruffles my feathers in the cocktail lounge

Even if I tried ~Maryland, USA I couldn’t make this up — a girl named Olive green with envy Alexis Rotella The store clerk that shirt-changed me He asks I throw his if I like soul brothers Canadian nickel and I tell him into the wishing well it depends on the soul A box of pastry wrapped tightly The bank teller in white cotton string who has known us they’ll never know for decades it’s blood pudding sends her regards to our nonexistent kids

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 13 Raspberry thumb-print cookies Empty cicada shells in the pastry case the old walk I feel like Gretel the same morning path waiting for the witch no one knowing to curse me forever fat the other’s names

The love bites Oh no she left on your neck here he comes and I at the door the neighbor offering pork chops with his dreadful stuffed with pistachios homemade fudge

Black Friday I Love Lucy 40 percent off how long the tuxedo has it been I’ll wear alone since I laid under the stars an egg?

Wedding cake ceiling New Year’s Eve sheer curtains blow instead of lighting into the spacious room my cigarette where I wait for a man he sets my hair who forgets on fire

Five and Dime Obligatory visit the sound of an ambulance we sit without speaking from brother’s mouth her house cold the toy my mother I don’t bother can’t afford to take off my coat

Before Thanksgiving My diamond earring flies we stock up across the room on chocolates so much for making forgetting there are fewer an impression on these this year to impress proper Japanese

Cicadas Her way their screams of playing Scrooge reach all the way she deliberately to the 49th floor doesn’t send of the old age complex the annual poinsettia

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 14 I cover a painting First day of the year of a fish I greet on a platter a new patient the rinpoche will be here my sweater for dinner inside out

Unable to start Always there their car inside my mouth the Shinto priest’s wife a name in fish-net stockings I dare not crosses the wires speak

The old Tibetan couple No geisha tonight up at 3:30 on the streets of Gion chanting prayers just the on again long before off again the butter tea firefly lights

By day I sit inside he stocks shelves the walls of a whale at the liquor store and wait the monk to be rescued in plaid Bermudas from this stinkbug house

~United States I tuck in my dolls tell them not to be afraid dad’s fist through the window

Morning fog the silhouettes of cargo ships waiting to be led into harbor

Sound of barking dogs in the south of Japan like the ones from my hometown

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 15 Cherita

Alexis Rotella Someone fixed the garden lock

and left on the stoop a paisley bundle Spring in Chestnut Hill with a few oranges the houses sumptuous and grapes in their flower gardens the color of smoke rare strains of day-lilies planted over a century ago by the gardeners of millionaires Husband’s cancer diagnosis

on a tarnished silver platter To the island of the dead I toss pomegranate seeds a morning of fog for the robins and the boats heaped with gladioli who never come mourners in their long black coats all huddle together Six perfect pears

each wrapped in green holiday tissue Cliff town from a relative the houses piled who never writes on top of each other or thinks to call like sugar cubes the white so jarring we squint A fellow practitioner

for Christmas she sends me Her bruises a bottle the color of herbals of eggplant date expired silk stockings ~United States on a doorknob the sky starched blue

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 16 Narcissist Relative Anne Anthony

Alexis Rotella hours by her bedside dim light shadows her pale cheek breath slow and labored The phone rings all day, people who offer await birth and await death well wishes when I could really use a sandwich. inhale, exhale passing through My aunt says she realizes we’re going through a sad time then as an afterthought mentions the ~Chapel Hill, North Carolina, USA visitor, not a physical visitor but perhaps her dead husband who followed her up the stairs before she went to bed. In one of her usual temper tantrums, she says, “You can call me crazy like everyone else, but I know what I saw. I just thought I’d bring it up.”

Before she slams down the phone as is her custom, I assure her I’m listening, simply listening. Autumn Noelle Hall

My husband could die tomorrow and it would still be all about her, how a caregiver is late as 2017 or how the soup isn’t quite warm enough. like all black buzzing things lands at last I tell the robo caller rubbing greedy hooked hands to go directly I swat it into oblivion to hell and to stay there a million years four years wed we forego the time-honored “fruit” ~United States toasting instead in rugged mountain plaids our “flannel anniversary” Alexis Rotella’s latest books, BETWEEN WAVES and THE COLOR BLUE (Red Moon Press, 2017) are available from the author [email protected]. nothing holds their swimming hole open Anne Anthony has been published in Postcards Poems and Prose Magazine, Blue Heron Review, The North Carolina Literary Review, this winter — Brilliant Flash Fiction, Dead Mule School for Southern Literature, for the first in a decade Poetry South, and elsewhere. She holds a Masters in Professional — not a quack in the ice Writing from Carnegie Mellon University. She lives and writes full- time in North Carolina. Visit her author website at http:// anneanthony.weebly.com. ~Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 17 cherita Found tanka excerpted from The World of the Ten Thousand Autumn Noelle Hall Things by Charles Wright after Earth Autumn Noelle Hall dispersed the fatal toxin to cleanse Herself of man Wright’s poem titles appear beneath each tanka. Caledonian Crows lay down their hooked tools and began to speak again Death never entered his poems but rowed winter leftovers with its hair down laughing up at the sky pungent juniper Portrait of the Artist with Li Po goes down easier once the deer the subject have eaten all of all poems our stale tortillas is the clock the tiny untouchable hands that fold across our chests hands around Portrait of the Artist with Hart Crane a bent-neck bottle of Armagnac . . . little boat slipping were I an ortolan across one element I might have drowned toward the horizon in this aroma whose lips know but stay sealed under the heaven of the moon

Laguna Dantesca Hamadryads once imprisoned in trees strange begging for release what the past brings back . . . parents, for instance the knots and grain how ardently they loom of their faces in the fire — so unimpeachable contort . . . then ease Driving through Tennessee ~Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 18 transfiguration will start like this, I think: FYI — there are No Fireflies breathless on Pikes Peak quick blade through the trees red falling from my hands Autumn Noelle Hall October watch as I don the talk turned your blush-colored kimono to whiskey and everyone rose-colored glasses dusted his best lie off and wet a pink inkstone to write about cherry blossoms: selling whatever he could — it was all so American how they fall Lonesome Pine Special like the wee wrinkled heads of starved Yemeni babes from aid workers’ hands the moonlight cherry blossoms sitting inside my head like knives . . . like the snow the cold like a drug not falling in Colorado I knew I’d settle down with this winter the transience of water cherry blossoms in sleep I stepped out onto the smooth rock cape bullet blooms petaling of the cliff on the chests of protestors my left hand, then my right, stopped Honduran voters by the breathing side of a bear outvoted by cokesters cherry blossoms ~Two Stories the “treatment” ~Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, USA Doc Nassar gave his gymnasts for decades their finger-parted labia cherry blossoms

Eric Garner Erica Garner — Black Lives that Mattered . . . so choked up I can’t breathe cherry blossoms

Parkland, Florida seventeen more students shredded into semi-automatic news cherry blossoms

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 19 poignance, elegance No Child is an Island and beauty could be construed as Fake News — Autumn Noelle Hall ways to evade bitter truths cherry blossoms dip your brush so I ask you in rising seas and sepia Gatekeepers, Standard Bearers — still, you will not are you mono no aware or no wash away my name — that the very voices you let go I am Seychelles are cherry blossoms? my coral skirts, shin-length Climate Change may edit out though waters reach my waist, Prunus serrulata, too carry away and you the wicker from verandas what will you write of then? that once fronted beaches . . . cherry blossoms? here, ~Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, USA I saved this chair for you — sit down beside me hold your breath

I am Tegua, child-wide eyes about to brim, first, said the UN, among the refugees of Climate Change —

they gave me these strange shoes, scuffed and buttoned walk with me — wave, before it is too late for the Torres Straits

I am Abaiang, my entire village — Tebunginako — submerged beneath the surge relocated — dislocated

I fold my little hands like this now my prayers for Kiribati swallowed up like whiskered fish

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 20 look how no angel sits Thine Art in Heaven on that (Hallowed be Thy Fame) blue-borne wisp of cloud conversational kyoka prose I am Palau. Carteret. like slow tsunami swells Autumn Noelle Hall & Don Miller salt water threatens to poison drinking wells, un-furrow farmland plaids My poet friend suggests I check out the Humanity Star webpage;* “Interesting concept,” he says. So I read break bread fruit trees the lot — even the FAQs — and hey, now I have a few . . . and living reefs alike What permissions, if any, were necessary to hang an art one cannot dine satellite in space, and who gave them? How much fuel was on leg-o-mutton sleeves — used to launch that thing into orbit, and what is its energy please, I am hungry equivalent — in terms of, say, 60 watt LED bulbs — here on earth? Whose private rocket hauled that payload, and call me Tuvalu what was the bottom line? And finally, is artist/ my once-cerulean skies entrepreneur Peter Beck by any chance a drinking buddy of dark, insidious Elon Musk . . .? as terrorism taking hold — even cemeteries swamped “Baby, You can drive my car — Yes Micronesia, we — I’m gonna be a star . . .” ** just far-away specks, and yet, flashing back in morse code: can you resurrect blink blink, blink blink — nyaaa our island ways . . .? when we’ve drowned speak our names — yours may be the same Obviously, I am less-than-thrilled on a number of different levels: 1) “Humanity” is again being defined in ~Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, USA terms of its uber-cool technology and can-do-therefore- will-do attitude, 2) The moon — which has played this exact unifying role for Earthkind for . . . EVER — is Autumn Noelle Hall watches the world from a small cedar cabin on the apparently no longer considered enough of an enticement to slopes of Pikes Peak, attempting to make sense of life’s senselessness through her writing. She is grateful to the sun for rising each day, to her coax people into looking up, 3) We now have yet another husband and the mountain’s wild creatures for keeping her company, and blinky satellite thingy orbiting around in the sky — as to all those who so generously read and publish her work. She sincerely though the other gazillion (all of which can be similarly hopes it is possible to save the Earth one tanka at a time. tracked and observed) weren’t enough to say Kilroy — oops, I mean Humanity — was here, 4) Space trash — yeah, even if it’s just teensy tiny particulates that survive an atmospheric burn, 5) Once more, we’re collectively aiming upward and onward, rather than towards solutions which might actually make living here on Earth feasible . . .

I am also beyond a little concerned that the next launch will be McDonald’s hanging a giant flashing set of golden arches in the sky. To be followed by a comet-like Nike swoosh, perhaps a constellation-shaped ad or two for

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 21 the Army, etc. It has not escaped me that the US has long * [http://www.thehumanitystar.com] refused to sign onto any treaty that might prohibit it from ** Songwriters: John Lennon / Paul Mccartney profiteering at will in space . . . Drive My Car lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Still, I suppose as art installations go, the Humanity *** Night Fever © Universal Music Group/RSO Records composed by Barry Gibb/Maurice Gibb/Robin Gibb Star scores a “First.”

every mirror Autumn Noelle Hall watches the world from a small cedar cabin on the of its geodesic face slopes of Pikes Peak, attempting to make sense of life’s senselessness reflecting through her writing. She is grateful to the sun for rising each day, to her husband and the mountain’s wild creatures for keeping her company, and mankind’s boundless hubris — to all those who so generously read and publish her work. She sincerely Narcissus, we have lift off hopes it is possible to save the Earth one tanka at a time.

Don Miller lives in the Chihuahuan Desert of Southern New Mexico, I have read enough writings of hers to know USA. He has been writing tanka since the early 80’s, and has had his these concerns she FAQ-writes about. I too had tanka, tanka sequences, tanka prose and other short-form poetry an initial thought on cost and where that money published on a somewhat regular basis in various print and online could better serve humanity; but curiosity is journals since the early 2000s. getting the better of me as I consider what effect, if any, light glinting off this tiny dome spinning overhead might have . . .

reliving the 70s night fever, night fever *** a strobe-like affect shooting off in all directions from this disco star

Though it is hardly large enough (when hung in space) to actually see ourselves back on earth, I search for a deeper meaning, shivering at the thought of what the angular images — of the scarification of North Dakota fracking fields, or the open pit coal mines of southern Indiana/ Illinois and northern Kentucky, or the clear- cutting of the Amazon rainforest — might look like reflecting back at us from those polished panels . . .

geometric optics orbiting this sphere fragmenting surreal abstractions

~Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, USA & Las Cruces, New Mexico USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 22 31 Winters Barun Saha

Barun Saha shaking and swollen our busy lips hummed the song of closeted love It was the last time of the year when the stories that’ll remain preserved month in the calendar had to be changed. beneath the soft sheets of snow I woke up at 08:17 AM. The window glasses looked dull; the wide wings of wild winter yesterday we walked appeared to have shadowed everything on this by the barren river bank earth. Unfortunately, it never snows at my home. an emerald ring I wonder how it would have felt when the first proposed by childhood sweetheart snowflake of the season glided along my cheek. dreams of a house with garden Or when a snowflake quietly got itself in between our palms when we held hands together . . . the warmth melting the snowflake, the warmth delicate tendrils melting me. Only if there was some snow . . . climbing up the window pane only if there was that someone! busy Saturday — company of dusk telescopes looking for signs I put on the gray sweater of the growing universe for a lonely walk along the roads scattered with icicles of frozen dreams his first day at school riding with dad in the car The small bed in the small room always flaming maple leaves patiently waits for me whenever I go out. In the waiting along the old road table beside, the kingdom of spiders is having its jumped and waved excitedly golden era. Some papers lie scattered around. I ~Commemorating my twin nephews’ first day at school think they are now too brittle to touch; some lines of unfinished poems; an unsent letter or two. But away from all these chaos, at one corner of the your warm breath grazing table, lies my precious. Something that I still have upon my shivering hands . . . since my teenage days. the empty train coach teleported us afar two princes dancing among the stars through wormholes in the snow covered garden inside the snow globe a glimpse of utopia standing at great heights beneath a protective shield Adonis flexing muscles underwear billboard — ~Durgapur, West Bengal, India traffic snarls from fantasies of teenagers and adults

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 23 as if all are dead in their small village houses I have no place Sunday afternoon — a crow’s caw by the still pond a wife-carer’s lament cannot cool down the sun’s rage Bill Albert Love Story bookmarked with wedding invitation . . . I have no place the weeping willow your curtain of pain relatively less sombre always drawn than my frozen reflection for the world to see mine hidden inside mortal senses charged I have no place with instant electric sparks your crippled body lips pressed against lips bent, broken two lovesick spirits drink from screams out in colour the misty pool of passions mine crumbles quietly

I have no place origami crane you take the foreground flew away in October majestically with the sedge of cranes vibrant your battle Sadako’s terminal wish mine dull, mundane still evades our earthly souls ~Norwich, UK ~Kharagpur, West Bengal, India

Bill Albert is a novelist, poet and disability rights activist. He was born Barun Saha is a researcher and poet from Durgapur, India. He in New York, grew up in California and has spent the last 50+ years primarily writes tanka and haiku. He is the author of Swapner Kheya, in the UK. a book of Bengali poems: https://goo.gl/Z6dh6n, and co-author of a textbook on Opportunistic Mobile Networks. Visit https://goo.gl/ cnTY5y for his poems and http://barunsaha.me for more information about Barun.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 24 Science Fiction Kyoka Kyoka

Carol Raisfeld Carol Raisfeld at the hospice asked about the watch tattooed her sleeping habits on her wrist she demurred begins the countdown only to say she sleeps in to her last hours Chanel No. 5 and nothing more at the morgue at the party Zombies being drained a sprig of mistletoe still gurgle in her cleavage . . . talking about last night’s a smile to melt the winter harrowing ambulance ride he stayed the night at the organ recital the magic on bulbous planet Organa of an ordinary day . . . lights dim . . . fly on a fly grandma still talks about “yes, I love you her transplanted stomachs more than shit” swirling moving out from the fourth dimension mattresses all packed a mystical vortex . . . in the truck . . . unsuspecting newlyweds through the house, fleas vanish in the triangle wait for new the tenants chatting in neon my uncle where spark is king the contortionist they touch toes . . . on his honeymoon exploding red passion finally, he winds up morphs into psychedelia meeting his end mom braids her hair wedding day before we put her back she waxes the tops in the jar of her toes until next week’s visit her mother’s mustache to the electric exorcism newly bleached

~Atlantic Beach, New York USA ~Atlantic Beach, New York USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 25 Carol Raisfeld Cherita

Carol Raisfeld a city asleep in the rain, rivulets find their way . . . the cat eyes closed, I stroke the curve of your back rolling over and over all paws and tail and still coming to rest I see your smiling face he stretches, curling in winter dreams — into a square of sun my summer friend do you miss me?

new mother-in-law as children gravitating to moonlight with rouged earlobes you and I . . . mile-long eyelashes together, we were magic, we were golden dressed all in white pretending to be innocent, she said about fun: have it! not knowing her child’s mind changed forever she shows the nurse romance where he touched her together we spoke it we sit perfectly for years on the porch reminiscing a language we lived you telling the stories with infinite depth I’ve heard before in rarefied air you and I were more than you and I seagulls still fishing it was we . . . how do I see the world now the afternoon wind through my own eyes whips crisp and clean

behind ~Atlantic Beach, New York USA the dune grass you hold me

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 26 Kyoka waking slowly Charles Harmon businessmen pick at the hotel’s buffet pay doctor’s bill? reading grim headlines or pay electric bill? the strong coffee doing hmmmm . . . its intravenous work Edison can shut off power doctor can’t shut off blood we promised a mile wide an inch deep each other the best lives knowledge always and forever a shallow dark pool reflecting endless sky now in pockets of stillness I daydream of memories — the way we loved reached out my hand to Lady of the Lake got my sword back now if I can just find the weight my horse of his voice heavy with love cat and dog people opposite personalities the sound how do they differ? of his smile singing dog lovers have a ruff life hallelujah, hallelujah cat lovers’ lives are purrfect

~Atlantic Beach, New York USA time comes to leave plant me in the garden Carol Raisfeld lives in Atlantic Beach, New York, US. Her poetry, art facing brilliant sunshine and photography appear worldwide in print, online journals and perhaps I will return anthologies. Website: www.Haikubuds.com, Twitter: @carol_red. as a shade tree

~Los Angeles, California, USA

Charles Harmon, science teacher, lives and works in Los Angeles, California, USA, and enjoys cooking for his wife and three children. Charles has spent more than five years overseas in over sixty countries traveling, travailing . . .

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 27 we are on our knees Dave Baldwin in the garden I am weeding, you are planting snowfall honey bees the boy who became my father move pause move pause kissed her cheek — what did my face look like before that happened clicking Send — she is the last of my parents’ generation stepping through gone are the trees the pines of Cambria I used to climb I hear the noise of unseen waves the murmur of family gossip tonight by the lemon tree our first kiss the blacktop road I ride home comes to an end here on a horse of oxygen at the edge of the wilderness I am not afraid the river always leaves its source she is the wind yet it never leaves she cares for nothing the tangled fishhooks I am the grass of loves false and true I cannot move without her the baby is dead . . . while he stares brute beasts return into the street to the clear-running creek she feels her breasts now bone dry filling with milk my hands remember the pressure of her breasts deep grasses choke the broad path in my world we used to walk even the shadow has a shadow our past is lost I look for a place in a seamless field of green to lie down between words in a sentence ~United States tethered to the sun Dave Baldwin recently retired from the Walt Disney Company (Disney Venus is brighter than usual Technology) in Seattle after a 40-year career as a technical writer and and so are you tonight editor. He grew up in southern California, earned a B.A. in history and an M.A in English, and taught composition courses at several on the arm community colleges in the Seattle area. Dave lives in Lake Stevens, of a rich man Washington.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 28 the space in my room Dave Read starts to grow tight every day I find myself closer to death as I reach to touch your hip — breathing in tiny feet echo sharp, shallow breaths — in the hall my ribs just another cage to escape under a hood with buds in my ear I slip through panic attacks a crowd of other as the elevator drops — people’s shadows I touch the next button and look for the stairs trekking through the mountain mist — meeting a friend how quickly we reach this brisk winter day — the peaks of our lives I order a tea and a table outside “perhaps if you learned to give a little more” — a billion stars the advice I decide this warm summer night to keep to myself I count my blessings in each passing breath stuffing old clothes into bags — my children a housefly trapped grow into between window and blinds helping folks out the expanse of the skyline bumping its head another star dead at sixty-seven — my talent owning the little for numbers space that is mine and unforgiving facts I squeeze my eyes tight on the afternoon train

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 29 slipping away Not With You Looking from the office for lunch — the nerves Don Miller of a sparrow returning to flight t w o a.m. circling the fireplace unboarding the airplane stopping each time before it departs at the front door I descend I ask gotta go out now the thin air of the tarmac sniffing a hundred spots each time too weak only taking to fight this long to pee anymore I scratch squatting the window frost off the trail behind a bush the modesty with all of my dog of space to float through ~New Mexico, USA the astronaut’s small suit Don Miller lives in the Chihuahuan Desert of southern New Mexico, USA. He has been writing tanka since the early 1980s, and has had his tanka, tanka sequences, tanka prose, and other short-form poetry weeds sprout published on a somewhat regular basis in various print and online around the yard journals since the early 2000s. a cabbage butterfly flutters in my gut

~Canada

Dave Read is a Canadian poet living in Calgary. He primarily writes short poems with an emphasis on the Japanese genres of haiku, senryu, tanka, and haibun. He was a recipient of the 2016 Touchstone Individual Poem Award for haiku, as granted by The Haiku Foundation. His work has been published in many journals (including Atlas Poetica, hedgerow, Akitsu Quarterly and Acorn), and anthologies (including dust devils: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku, 2016).

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 30 shadows call to me the dark side

Debbie Strange Debbie Strange

I walk a portent into the break of day of dangerous times accompanied anvil clouds by sparrowsong press the setting sun and your shadow under water slanted light rainbow flares caresses the ruins of nacreous clouds at eventide we are shadows call to me, easily seduced but I do not answer by the dark side of beauty

~Manitoba, Canada ~Manitoba, Canada

the surest way nothing

Debbie Strange Debbie Strange water reeds farm auction . . . trail from the paddles we have nothing of a bull moose left to lose it is moments like this except these thistles that make me whole rooted in our hearts pawprints rumours echoed of spirit bears lead me through the streets to water of our town following a river nothing to do but run is the surest way home and we are running, still

~British Columbia, Canada ~Saskatchewan, Canada

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 31 Debbie Strange basket of socks mother riffles through them ladies who lunch . . . two white-tailed deer no two alike daintily sample she sets the basket the fresh salad bar back on the shelf in my garden cafe

~Manitoba, Canada mallard ducks

waddle down the greensward you who were consoling each other made of brilliance thank you next year they will build the nest for the theory on a patch of ground of everything too small for the mower

for Stephen Hawking

~Manitoba, Canada pirate ship stranded

Debbie Strange (Winnipeg, Canada) is a short form poet, photographer, a scar-faced man and haiga artist. She is a member of the Writers’ Collective of tangled in rope Manitoba and is also affiliated with several haiku and tanka organizations. Her first collection, Warp and Weft: Tanka Threads the tattered parrot was published by Keibooks in 2015, and the sequel, Three-Part Harmony: Tanka Verses is forthcoming. Please visit her publication slumped on his perch archive at http://www.debbiemstrange.blogspot.ca. crying “mercy, mercy”

a hole in the yard Cherita not the rabbit hole Alice tumbled into

Elizabeth Howard but a wonderland indeed a gopher tunnel filled with prize tulip bulbs April hillside groundhog pups meadowlark song feasting on daffodils caroling amidst daisies on the hilltop and Queen Anne’s lace a giant groundhog gnashes his teeth circling a field of grain, just beyond tips of deer velvet

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 32 thistledown small part of me saddened by the fact sails i’ve never used butterfly-like ‘stop drop and roll’ as much as i thought i would settles in the grass biding its time kid stealing cigarettes from the vending machine to smoke in the alley just another excuse a burst of wind to play with matches the hummingbird grasps trying to brand a blueberry bush expletives on his arm with a hot fork the wind blasts him off but I think it looks a tiny rocket more like a smiley shooting up and up

~Tennessee, USA insect lover: the roaches Elizabeth Howard lives in Arlington, Tennessee. Her tanka have been in his house published in Eucalypt, red lights, Mariposa, Ribbons, Gusts, Atlas don’t scurry Poetica, Skylark, Moonbathing, and other journals. from the lights

“fuck the police!” the punk yells as he steals a bluejay feather off the ground

identifying Kyoka my future husband when he stoops to help Grunge a cockroach stuck on its back learning i’m ~Florida, USA the chosen one because only i can prevent Grunge is a gay Indo-American, who specializes in urban tanka. He currently lives in South Florida with a collection of pet arthropods, an forest fires ancient cat, and a pudgy leopard gecko. Found kyoka, original by Matt Oswald, https://i.pinimg.com/ originals/d9/16/6b/d9166b91a86ed294226488123571f08d.jpg

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 33 Kyoka Where No Sound Leaks Out

Geoffrey Winch Janet Brof

Glastonbury My mother was a well-known piano teacher two-thousand-and-eighteen: in Brooklyn. As her daughter, it was assumed I last town in England would play at each of her June concerts that still living the life would fill the dining and the living room and of the Sixties hallway with parents and relatives. She gave lessons in our dining room where there were two ~Glastonbury, England baby grand pianos. My bedroom, where I had my own upright piano, was located down the hall from the dining room beside the bathroom. don’t hide your candles Sometimes, in the midst of her teaching, my under your bushel mother, on her way to the bathroom, would pass keep them handy by my door and listen. When she would hear along with your matches only a few desultory notes, she would crack open ready for the next power crash the door quickly, peek in and discover a Nancy Drew Mystery on the music stand. ~England “I’d like to break every bone in your body,” she would hiss. There are times now, I awake to those words should you take a journey and feel a bit undone. Other times, I may wander two decades long off and place my hands on my computer as I did I’ll stay at home today when I typed: and weave myself a new life out of many lovers caressable keys that allow me to speak ~faux Ithaca and to dream where no sound leaks out but my own heartbeat Geoffrey Winch, a retired highway engineer, resides on England’s south coast. He is associated with several local creative writing groups for ~New York, USA whom he leads occasional poetry workshops. Recent collections include Alchemy of Vision ~ Indigo Dreams, 2014— which focused on the visual, performing and literary arts — and West Abutment Mirror Images ~ Original Plus, 2017 which marked his twenty-fifth My poems have appeared in The New York Quarterly, Aphra, successive year of being published in small press poetry magazines Lancet, The Literary Review, Midstream, Modern Haiku, Ribbons, mainly in the UK, US and online. among other journals. Translations of mine have appeared in Mundus Artium, Bomb and the New England Quarterly. I am co-editor of Doors and Mirrors: An Anthology of Spanish-American Fiction and Poetry, 1920-70. I am an educational therapist in New York City.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 34 L.A. is still Jeffrey Woodward intact and opulent by night and day with the several deadly sins that we indulged therein you offer in your slight but silken palm it was a meadow the scarlet delicacy before it was parceled as of an apple a city lot and now that it is vacant the flowering weeds return the card players forearms on the table eyes fixed on their hands my father called me hats tilted slightly clearly again from the yard pipes at an angle and at his door then I turned back to see only the bright day in a dream you lean into the dough you knead a sober façade your pale eyes, pale lips of shuttered storefronts, expressionless no villager about, and twitching in and out of a streetlight, a bat one narrow window with its grim coat of dust to filter out the day though my father’s friends that’s the place I called my home and neighbors who are not dead that’s the life for which I paid long ago moved on, the river that ran then runs now through the shambles of our town someone says, let’s stay someone says, let’s go the night is black and your full lips jaggedly cold but darkened too there’s light from the snow by the deep red stain of the pomegranate I’m immured tonight in my arid study with divers brittle books downhill and every text I lift through the dry and waist-high exhales its share of dust grass of summer to the blue saucer of a sunken lake

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 35 in the strange town salt cod with ackees where I’ve come to live and sweet plantain fried of course no one visits with dumplings on the side a shadow now and then you cook this breakfast your mother once of a bird of passage graciously served me in Jamaica nothing but a mirror like one headlight a pane of glass on this road cracked that twists and O world inverted turns all night O jagged world the dune’s sand this morning’s shower kicks up has washed the sidewalk clean the marram grass of the hopscotch chalk tosses about where not many days ago the wind and lightning nears a sick child watched others play

~Michigan, USA the beautiful dew oblivious to time nevertheless Jeffrey Woodward founded and formerly edited the journals Haibun through the patient spider’s web Today and Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose. He served in 2010 and again in 2011 as adjudicator for the British Haiku Society’s Haiku with the bright morning passes Awards. His selected poems, under the title In Passing, were published in 2007 and he edited The Tanka Prose Anthology in 2008. In 2013, collections of his haibun and tanka writings were issued under the respective titles Evening in the Plaza and Another Garden. let the man who wants a lawn spotless curse it daily this dandelion I love April’s emblem of the sun

Easter Sunday somehow brighter and more buoyant for this gallivanting white butterfly

Ile d’Orleans lies in the St. Lawrence jade-like before me cradle of Nouvelle-France and of my mother’s family

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 36 whistling in the dark thoughts & prayers

Jenny Ward Angyal Jenny Ward Angyal a meeting of the Flat Earth Society seventeen more in my state capital — black armbands looney birds roosting on a nation’s soul — in the Land of Trump yet the guns stand erect as the coffins go down from the throne of a naked emperor NRA torrents of words blazoned across his back — like day-blind bats I look twitter across the sky for the blood on his hands on the radio the usual blather on foolscap, about causes I write letters of gun violence — to my Senator — a wren burbles in the frost thirty pieces of silver jingle in his pocket worshippers kneel in a river ~Florida & North Carolina, USA of blood, lifting clasped hands to the god of guns Jenny Ward Angyal grew up in Connecticut, where she wrote her first poem at the age of five. She now lives with her husband on a small, organic farm on the top of a hill in North Carolina, surrounded bereft of words by meadowlands, sky and the madcap songs of mockingbirds. She I kneel and listen: writes tanka in whatever time she can spare from lullabies in falling snow the silent sparrows emptiness — the discarded bottle in my hand sings at every step the wind’s low note deer entrails at the meadow’s edge — I divine the will of the gods in a chickadee’s whistle

~North Carolina, USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 37 Jim Doss claimed he climbed Everest — the old pub-crawler whose glass of cider trembled in hand and whose veiny red cheeks glowed like blood-leached snow her secret wealth — not in a bank account or the rings on her fingers, sycamore but in a smile, half in rags, the welcoming glow of her eyes half in radiance — what can you teach me about my own life? the snow on my head — I feel like a mountain that just keeps rising the inn of no sorrow — higher and higher I plan to vacation there as the continents shift around me for two weeks in the future, no children, no wife, no travails — basking in the bliss of total denial bachelor for the weekend — which of these books which doctor will I take has the miracle? for my mistress? they each look the same in their lab coats and all-knowing smiles ankle shattered restraining him, foot pointing the way of gravity — should I be happy a plastic yellow mask after my son blows a 2.6 of her head and shoulders — the police release him to his mother? its uniform pattern of bullet holes to let the radiation through poetry saves no one — it can’t take the gun from his hand, the pill from his tongue, artificial intelligence — the bottle from his lips the autocorrect except in my imagination keeps autocorrecting my typos with typos wish it was this easy — I the oyster and he the irritating my father’s grave grain of sand with its Marine Corps insignia — my love slowly turns into a pearl why visit now while he is still alive inside of me

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 38 the artistic life ten feet from the highway with its beggar’s cup extended — a tiny home made of Arizona sod sometimes even applause just inside the reservation — don’t make up feel that cool breeze for those missing nickels and dimes each time a refrigerated truck rumbles by

~Fort McDowell Yavapai Nation Reservation, Arizona, street lamps USA cast their cones of light into future and past one step and you’re there here surrounded by an enormous darkness where George Wallace was shot my mistakes my car numerous as the birds in the sky — leaks its last drops of oil yet this one fat pigeon sitting on the window ledge ~Laurel Shopping Center, Maryland, USA peering into my office day after day here snowflake under the microscope where Jefferson fading fractal wrote the Declaration algorithm like human DNA two men in the alley that no machine can clone shooting up not even Mother Nature ~Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA radio news of today’s suicide bombing — here background noise where Lee to the hum of bumblebees hopping surrendered to Grant from blossom to blossom my ancestors’ faded headstones shadowing fields they once plowed paint swatches ~Appomattox, Virginia, USA a checkerboard of colors across the walls — Jim Doss lives with his wife and three children in Sykesville, which will be kinged first? Maryland, and earns his living as a software engineer. He has previously published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again, and What Remains. In partnership with Werner Schmitt, he also published of all the poems a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 - 1914. In his spare in the world time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review. you had to walk into mine here’s looking at you kid again and again and again

~United States

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 39 Joanna Ashwell John Gonzalez beneath our feet winter snowflakes I say, learn how to the slow melt abandon pains: of fallen stars she undresses spins our hearts beautifully — her clothes fall and I say, that is a start this familiar place where hills undulate Lolita says . . . and valleys dip this man could be your father — rivers wind and whisper the child looks at me back to waterfalls of belonging with stars and questions in his eyes, crucifying, the very thought of a no star-lit treetops winter’s glint more at home in the dark across a luminary sky when Lolita’s startled where waves of whispers she closes the door drift lightly into dusk to keep light at bay: outside there’s a host of stars ~United Kingdom

for her Joanna Ashwell lives in the North East of England where cold weather red and white roses — is expected and hiding places are common. Enjoys reading haiku, tanka, cherita and other related forms. Published in International Tanka, Atlas sad Lolita Poetica, Skylark and others. gives half back as a thank-you gift

tonight a sky full of stars — her blue eyes fixed on the map . . . a road leading to somewhere

competing to reach the sky first I take a few more drugs — Lolita waving from on high out of reach and vanishing

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 40 alone John S. Gilbertson her precious dog and me — I say her name and his ears pop up . . . The hem keeps moving I see her face in his transparent eyes as curtain wiggles to top; a living creature with the breath of ongoing she asks, from the air conditioner. who said: give sorrow words and pains will ease? ~Greenville, South Carolina, USA her view of the dark sea she calls a painting that is fading John S. Gilbertson lives in Greenville, SC, traveled extensively in Japan and wrote poetry over the last thirty years. A book poetry has been red apples published: Two Ends of a Loose String. bright under moonlight now dear Lolita the fruit you pick for me will surely taste sweeter ashes & bones in our woods I pick flowers for her — things we need to address . . . Joy McCall & Jenny Ward Angyal sooner of later she will look in my direction ‘valens, valens’ they cry — courage, valour Lolita to the martyr’s bones loves picnics by the waterfall lying scattered and lost she loses herself in sounds among Wednesday’s ashes but her pains, sorrows and regrets do not flow down the river ashes grey and heart’s-blood red — the scorch the book of dragon’s breath she intended to read lighting a thousand candles inscribed to me — unable to understand her ~Norwich, England / North Carolina, USA I resort to poetry

~Ipswich, England Joy McCall lives in her birthplace, old Norwich in Norfolk, England. She too grows old and her mind is full of ghosts and poetry. All of John Gonzalez’s Tanka that so far have been published in several issues of Atlas Poetical will be included in John’s first Tanka collection Jenny Ward Angyal grew up in Connecticut, where she wrote her which is due for publication sometime in 2018. The book titled ‘Living first poem at the age of five. She now lives with her husband on a on the Edge’ is a sequence collection — Tanka about a dear friend, a small, organic farm on the top of a hill in North Carolina, surrounded very gifted and intelligent young lady who committed suicide. John lives by meadowlands, sky and the madcap songs of mockingbirds. She in Ipswich, England. His long poems, haiku and tanka, have featured writes tanka in whatever time she can spare. in numerous journals.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 41 faithful she would look at me and quote some verse Joy McCall from her Bible as she always did I have worked in many places as a nurse and but she never smiled remember so many patients with admiration and often amazement and great respect for the She lived another year after that, going human spirit. through the days, trying to keep the faith. At this time of year I think of an old lady I’m guessing that she was glad when her called Mrs Dorothy Downes. She was a quiet end came. Methodist, and despite all kinds of hardships, she When I saw her in the coffin, the undertaker never lost faith in her God. had put a smile on her face, as they usually do. When I knew her, she was ninety, her husband long dead. She had four children who I asked him visited her every week. A happy family. to take it away During the next three years, one by one, her let her go children died. First, her daughter, of cancer. honestly Then her youngest son, of a sudden stroke. to her God Then another son in a car crash; he lived a month on life support, then died. I’m hoping that the last thing she heard when It was at this time of year that we would have her life ended was her God, saying — well done, a big Christmas dinner for the old folks and their thou good and faithful servant. families. Mrs Downs was sombre, but glad that she ~Norwich, England would have her oldest, precious first-born son Derek with her. The evening before the party, I got a call to say Derek had had a heart attack and passed away. I went to her room and I sat and told her. It was one of the saddest moments of my life. letting go the old one sat alone and sad Joy McCall her faith was shaken and she prayed for Jack please God, take me, too I went to the motorbike shop in Suffolk. I She spent that Christmas alone in her room, finally had the heart to take in the ancient Honda and every day afterwards. We brought her food 400 Four which I have not ridden since the crash. and drink and helped her to bath and bed. the old bike I would give her like me, has been sitting toast and tea too long and a hug it’s time to say goodbye she took all three to the bike, at least with a sad grace

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 42 The old mechanic will get it up and running and someone will have the joy of riding it. He for Sophie* falls in love with the bike at first glance, which is not surprising, she’s a small beauty. Joy McCall

we sit in admiration new year’s night drinking coffee music and fireworks . . . talking journeys and far out at sea and engines and rides a young girl is drifting on the tide The old guy is always sad. I haven’t seen him smile in years. His only son, so mentally ill, killed a storm is brewing his own mother a decade ago, in their home. The the wind whips up the waves son is locked away forever. The old man still lives the moon is full in the house where his beloved wife died. the ships are at anchor in Yarmouth harbour he tells me: her soul is there the rowdy sailors I cannot leave her are drinking to the new year alone in that home in the old pub we made together there’s life and hope on the dry land he looks at the bike: I will not sell it the sea I will make it good is vast, deep and cold it will stand in my workshop the girl is so small shining like new and is this what she wanted? I leave behind the bike, the memories, going home wheelchair-bound; somehow feeling I have it’s not right been given some kind of blessing from the old for one so young man, from the bike, from life. to be in the sea let the tide take her to shore . . . ~Suffolk, England let her mother cover her face

Even the local crooks and their kids are out every day searching the shore for any signs of Sophie, but so far — nothing.

~Norwich, England

Joy McCall encountered tanka decades ago as a child, met the form again at an Alan Watts talk in Canada, also attended by Sanford Goldstein; and met it again in the books of the master who became her friend.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 43 Tanka Pairs hungry Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall Just Desserts the grand opening on the front porch I was there and sorry that I’d only one no rocking stomach to give the afternoon away on the front porch hospital food with my dog no wonder sleeping beside me so many patients don’t get out of there old age alive just gets more and more busy oh those old futile dreams shhh when we were young the foraging squirrel finds a morsel drenched, scented if I could move my jaw that fast unable to sleep I could say so much I listen to all the old tunes of my youth my mother by dawn, drenched in nostalgia, rabbitting on I am the saddest man in the world stops to say — talk is silver all day in my head silence is golden the songs of the highlands of my childhood — the scent of heather here I sit and wild mountain thyme here I sit broken hearted a trellis, a well came to write but can’t get started what use snowflakes by the window all these years of poetry? a trellis, perhaps, giving it’s cold my life a structure and it’s wet on which to cling, to grow I’ve done nothing yet the spring that feeds nothing but daydream the well where I drink is full of words ~Colrain, Massachusetts USA / Norwich, England bubbling, rising up to the light

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 44 Cherita on a balcony with a green bench Larry Kimmel and an icon above it,

an old man smoking — granite a fig of his former self the spacious sound a rose horizon of nothing camp coffee scones hot from the griddle

from an autumn branch o, to watch a hawk idly regards us her cross the river’s pebbly stones again again what seemed a plant to hear her naked laugh swimming across the pond really fast

was a muskrat marigolds with a mouthful of grass a cat on the porch fingers crossed and tic-tacs all winter day to freshen the breath the tawny owl clutches the apple bough

its feathers working the grill ruffed by wind you should have seen his face when the cops walked in ~Colrain, Massachusetts USA drugs Larry Kimmel lives quietly in the hills of western Massachusetts. His and underage videos most recent books are “shards and dust,” “outer edges” and “thunder and apple blossoms.” in an upstairs room Joy McCall suffers but her soul is full of love and dreams and poetry.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 45 Early Singapore Kyoka

Lorne Henry M. Kei

A stopover in Singapore on my way to Scotland in 1981. man-eating sofa — he only keeps A huge warehouse-type building full of tax- the old thing free electrical goods. Men cluster around large so he can say loudspeaker systems comparing brands, costs and he owns a leather sofa finer details that mean little to me. I’m amused at their competitiveness just as in specialist shops in Australia. the dangers of dating a smart girl: I wander along a shaded street savouring she beats him lychees and buy a small jackfruit for later. at chess three times in a row The aroma of that famous peanut dish being cooked and sold at little tables sets my mouth watering. An excuse to sit for a while. Timmynocky Walking for what seems like hours, my the sailor cat sandals for the heat have raised blisters along returns to the ship every strap line. on the arm of a beautiful blonde Then I discover an outdoor stall selling fruit juices. The most thirst quenching I have ever tasted a mix of lime and coconut juice. Ahhh! rivers of tanka flow through my hands I hike up the long hill to the old Victoria as I sit editing, Hotel, eat some of the delicious jackfruit, wrap driftwood from the farthest shores the rest then sleep — cast upon my desk

The stench of the jackfruit in the morning is overwhelming. The maid who comes to change shore leave — the bedding turns her nose up at it. new tattoos, t-shirts, and earrings, Out again next day I abandon my sandals for plus a miscellaneous collection sandshoes. of hangovers All too soon I leave for Scotland. a hawk named ‘Mort’ a smiling old man catches a pair of shrews bicycling to the airport in carnal congress sweeps his hands and so, la petite morte past blooming bougainvilleas becomes le grand Mort so proud of his new city

~Singapore

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 46 the ship’s cat is sulking — a sculpted meringue somebody put on a blueberry sea — a jingle bell nothing’s more on his collar quintessentially luxe than going to the opera ~Chesapeake Bay, USA inspired by nature the shapes of shells and wings Kei is a tall ship sailor and award-winning poet who lives on Sydney Opera House Maryland’s Eastern shore. He is the editor of Atlas Poetica : A rises out of the water Journal of World Tanka and the anthology, Neon Graffiti : Tanka Poetry of Urban Life. His most recent collection of poetry is January, like giant shark’s teeth A Tanka Diary. He is also the author of the award-winning gay Age of Sail adventure novels, Pirates of the Narrow Seas soaring shells (blogspot.narrowseas.com). He can be followed on Twitter @kujakupoet, or visit AtlasPoetica.org. lift our eyes to the heights of opera’s acclaim forgetting the drama . . . Lorne Henry has been writing haiku since 1992 in Czechoslovakia the depths of humanity now Czech Republic. She started writing tanka about 2005 after a workshop given by Beverley George. She also writes haibun and tanka prose. shell is a ‘grace’ word bearer of exquisite shapes the soft mollusc in a house with sharp edges and death scenes

at Circular Quay giant stalks of lilies a native flower wither in the heat alongside today’s tourists

from my hotel room Tanka for Sydney I focus on water views in the far distance Margaret Owen Ruckert missing the single row of heritage in the Rocks

take a walk a mid-blue sea along the waterfront on a mid-week morning of old Sydney in Sydney . . . find sandstone buildings I’m holidaying at home alive with new heart I find myself telling friends at beach-side wharves Sydney Opera House eco-tourists file ashore with its sails of good weather with cameras . . . floats alone they take nothing but sea-air on a sea of ideas and leave footprints in photos buffeted by the critics

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 47 clear sky, fine harbour Cherita a ferry filled with laughter eyes looking ahead Maryalicia Post I think of all the journeys that end where I begin he’s wearing blue alone in Paris to out-blue Port Jackson contemplates the waves grieving for you at almost eighteen months a blue butterfly his face — wise as a sage flies behind me ferry ride — c’est bizarre such a buoyant feeling a woman says of losing our cares but we can lose them on land — the city floats on water day over the sun tinges threatening clouds nothing done with new trust a coin I wish I’d spent in today’s progress . . . take another step falls away through on the waterway the grating the horizon is a place of silent trust ~Dublin, Ireland in a benevolent world . . . how space enhances thought Maryalicia Post is a journalist and travel writer based in Dublin Ireland. Her award-winning poem, After You, was published by ~Sydney, Australia Souvenir Press UK. Her tanka and cherita have regularly appeared in online and print journals. Other work has been published by Ogham Stone and Poetry Quarterly. Margaret Owen Ruckert M. Ed. (Sydney, Australia) writes of food and society in You Deserve Dessert and Musefood, an IP Poetry Book of the Year. She is widely published, her tanka appearing in international journals and travel photo-books. Margaret coordinates a local Café Poets group and presents creative writing workshops.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 48 Matt Cariello Rhyming Kyoka

Michael H. Lester she says we can walk but not talk I watch my daughter the garish madam watch distant in her tawdry cape and gown contrails unfold looks more the part of a circus clown than a paragon of fashion again my mother forgets that the irises have bloomed smitten by the wiles we sit and watch of a melancholy witch the mountains at dusk he clings to the desperate hope he’ll find the courage to resist at the meadow’s edge my childhood in three deep breaths a bit cricket, wild carrot, of morning doldrums waning moon brings me down a peg luckily, the window’s locked I cannot reach the ledge redbud on bare branches the blackbird cries a wicked wind the blackbird cries sweeps in from the east my life’s craft pelting cheek and chin driving off the gendarme to imbibe in whiskey and gin among new lilies my daughter waters the stone Buddha unapologetically a blank puddle in gruff and somber tone at his feet the judge pronounces sentence ~Ohio, USA on the burglar and his crone

Matt Cariello currently lives in Bexley, Ohio, where he works in the English Department at The Ohio State University. His poems and such poise haiku have appeared in Poet Lore, Artful Dodge, The Evening Street the little ballerina Review, Frogpond, Heron’s Nest, Daily Haiku, White Lotus, Acorn, displays Riverbed, Bottle Rockets, Simply Haiku and Modern Haiku. with her missing front teeth and penetrating gaze

~Los Angeles, California, USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 49 Rhyming Kyoka Sequence The Lovesick Sailor

Michael H. Lester Michael H. Lester

For those many months in a tiny bunk on the little cowpoke rough and choppy seas, the sailor finds relief and rides her steed with perfect solace in the space between his knees. When the style and grace merchant ship drops its anchors on the shores of over the brush and tumbleweed Shinjuku, he dons his finest navy blues and puts a with every hair in place spit shine on his shoes. With his pockets full of dollars and his mind on ale and brew, he heads to the jaded sheriff town with a rickshaw boy to do what men must with Stetson in hand do. patrols the old saloon full of cowboys and fancy whores the lovesick sailor who holler to beat the band engages the services of a geisha on his vest he is not disappointed a silver badge when she shows him her waka a six gun on his hip his eyes a pair of narrow slits ~Japan his spurs a bloody mess Sitting in his office in Los Angeles, California, on a quiet Sunday Lily White afternoon, his mind wandering all over the world — Taiwan, Norwich, London, Van Nuys Criminal Courts Building, and an elementary school the local madam auditorium in Culver City — Michael H. Lester writes of fantasies, keeps her girls in line fears, and foibles, experimenting with the kyoka form except the ones ain’t broken yet that’ll come in time a crimson sunset paints the desert twenty shades of red Weather Uncertain, the little cowpoke riding home Conditions Unknown just in time for bed

~Somewhere in the Painted Desert or Old Tuscon, Neal Whitman & Amelia Fielden Arizona, 19th Century, USA ‘Lighthouses are endlessly suggestive signifiers of both human isolation and our ultimate connectedness to each other’ — Virginia Woolf

to save ships and all who sail in them lighthouses at the world’s danger points . . . what is there warning us now

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 50 I was reading a group of poems by Eugenio into the dark Montale, Finisterre. sweep after sweep of light-beams A-ha! I fathom these have something to do illuminates with the end of land . . . land’s end ! the perils of our shores, I search the internet and find that, on the of our complacency Galicia coast in northwest Spain, Faro de Cabo, Finisterre, is the most westerly lighthouse on the ~Finisterre, Spain; Lubec, Maine; Point Arena, European continent. California My wife and I once stayed in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage at the Point Arena Lighthouse on California’s Mendocino coast, and we were Neal Whitman lives in Pacific Grove, California, with his wife told it sits on a spit of land that is the closest Elaine, practically in the shadow of Point Pinos Lighthouse where Neal finds inspiration for his poetry and Elaine for her photography. Neal is point of the Lower 48 to Hawaii . . .thus, our Vice President of the United Haiku and Tanka Society, haiku editor for most westerly lighthouse. Pulse : Voices from the Heart of Medicine, and editorial board member Next, I wondered about the most easterly of Haiku Revista in Romania. lighthouse in the U.S. and learned that it is the Amelia Fielden is an Australian who is a professional translator West Quoddy Head Light in Lubec, Maine. of Japanese literature and a keen writer of tanka poetry in English. It turns out that the greatest distance between any two mainland points within the descendant of lighthouse keepers contiguous 48 states is 2,892 miles : Point Arena poet by choice to West Quoddy Head! at Cape Byron I explore And it is another 2,814 miles from West our most easterly lighthouse* Quoddy Head Light to Faro de Cabo Finisterre. *Cape Byron Lighthouse stands on a promontory at the eastern We ponder : what if those three lighthouses most point of eastern Australia could send out a warning to Planet Earth :

DANGER PROCEED WITH CAUTION

What if those three lighthouses could co- ordinate a morse code signal? Point Arena Lighthouse . . . at 6.00 pm Patricia Prime Pacific Standard Time West Quoddy Light Head . . . at 9.01 pm reclining in the sun Eastern Standard Time surrounded by the windows Faro de Cabo Finisterre . . . at 3.02 am of neighbour’s houses Central European Time it’s almost like the beach with the sun hot on my face Imagine a continuous loop of repetitive lighthouse flashes until day breaks on the west Hockney painted coast of Spain. the ideal water his blue waves SOS repeated over and over reaching out to me from the gallery wall Imagine the message live-streamed on the internet that Earth is in danger. his vinyl collection has been compiled since Proceed with caution. he was a teenager now it’s stored in a shed in my overgrown garden

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 51 yesterday the cat there is a moment caught a tui and brought before the storm hits it into the house and the wind is silent we placed it in a box the clouds back-lit to recover before letting it go as still as in a photograph we catch the ferry descending in a fit of spontaneity the mountain road packing a picnic basket after a long drive with lettuce, tomatoes, radishes, we find a waterfront village date scones and a flask of tea with its whitewashed church at the 80s party daffodils ranked disco, costumes, food, on slopes of mown grass dancing and wine . . . bright in spring sunshine on the floor, I’m surrounded a group of children by youngsters and obscure music trying to count them blossoms swirl weeds, wildflowers, into the atrium drifting slugs, snails and sparrows between visitors — all ordinary Rodin’s “The Kiss” in the suburban garden in a room of its own at the height of summer a long shadow when the house cat quarters the foreground climbed the plum tree where a man but couldn’t get down leans in a doorway the boy climbed a ladder listening to the slap of rain to rescue it and take it home my mother used two women to measure the bathwater in the bay window of a small café to the inch — their faces half-hidden from the youngest to the eldest by a vase of pink roses we bathed every Saturday the bit of pavement we climb the cliff where the dog was killed point to where we’ve been near the crossing how small they are I take a photograph our footprints left of nothing, to remind me down there in damp sand on Sunday mornings I linger we ran to the shop for bread by the roadside leaves fingers tearing inhabiting at the golden, bouncy crust the halfway between long before we arrived home path and soft mush ~Auckland, New Zealand

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 52 The Booming Sea Beijing Bookshop

Patricia Prime Patricia Prime

under the spell The house stands on a hill, a deck overlooks of dancers in the square the valley, and from the living-room there is a waltzing to old tunes panoramic view of the ocean. Hours have been we become wallflowers spent in this bright space where the note of a red watching from the wings velvet chaise-longue bursts among the oak of doors and panelling. So alive its colours — the In Beijing, we ask our guide to take us to a black half-Persian cat, silver candlesticks, a bookshop where we can buy Chinese poetry stream of vivid paintings on the wall, dark green books. I buy two books in English for a few yuan: curtains, glass-fronted bookcases — set alight by The Poems of Li Ho and Al Qing’s Selected Poems. the clarity of the crimson couch. Most of the books I can’t read: the Chinese language sings its secrets beyond my eyes and It’s difficult not to feel happy in a place ears. I trace the shape of words, listen to the saturated with colour and light: days spent guide as he reads poems I can’t understand, walking the hills, watching fishing boats approach woven with a fine thread, painted with a sable the harbour bar, finding a lane that leads brush, carved in marble. I sound the words nowhere and sleeping on the curious, tactile sofa. ineffectively, but their beauty remains with me.

tea steeping — in the marketplace a loved poetry book far into the evening open on the table tiny birds in cages Milton’s Paradise Lost sing their songs leafed over many times of freedom to the stars

Between the booming sea of the distance and ~China occasional crickets, this silence in which questions rest, stresses dissipate, worries laugh. It’s the silence of life, deep and wonderful.

coding poems holding them gently in my hands listening to their whispered words

~Auckland, New Zealand

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 53 Cherita ghost moon the colours of night Patricia Prime before the dawn

in my room afternoon release spirit notes sharp as air the last class freed from sentences schoolchildren dawdle out along at dusk the verges a swan takes off from the lagoon before home the first of a pair flying over bulrushes the night descends into the sky to rhyme the way across the road inland gulls like envoys what I find

encased in glass are bones and feathers dust-caked lane the strange bird the riddle in the museum of the creek bed is a moa dragonflies and reeds the sharp taste of an apple rough concrete

the netball court cathedral quiet full of teenage girls high in the canopy their uniforms a single note multicoloured legs in motion a tui calls to its mate in the distance

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 54 a boy there are no answers stands on the edge in the mirror of the wharf no blueprint his sudden jump of the girl spiraling I once was into water in another lifetime

sultry lips pouting it is nothing long hair flicking the winter overcoat the waitress poses can help menu in hand the collar as she takes our order rubbing my neck silently like sandpaper

guitar riff a ragged scarecrow no-one can guess stands in a puddled field the song he plays staring into the clouds the busker arms open a young boy of twelve he welcomes the birds outside the mall into his coat

the swan the road is so long takes off from the lagoon the heat stifling at dusk light blinding the first of a pair on a highway each wingbeat with no signposts broad and deep to mark the way

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 55 under the trees Een duister moment in de hundreds of rain fingers geschiedenis van Houten tap against the ground clouds billow Paul Mercken as sheet lightning rends the summer sky Paul Mercken, Vertaler Nederlands-Engels

Albertus baron van Harinxma thoe Slooten (Beetsterzwaag, 4 mei 1872 – Amsterdam, 17 sep­ a couple of humans tem­ber 1940) was een Nederlands jurist die betrokken was bij een duister moment in de dirty with the work geschiede­nis van de gemeente Houten. of living on the streets Hij werd geboren als zoon van Binnert Philip baron van Harinxma thoe Slooten, die advocaat sleeping rough en kantonrechter was vooraleer hij in 1871 lid scratching a living werd van de Provinciale Staten van Friesland en from rubbish bins van 1878 tot 1909 Com­missaris van de Koning(in) van Friesland was. Zijn oudere broer Pieter ging hun vader achterna en werd in 1909 Commissaris van de Koningin van Friesland; zelf had hij een 37- two brothers jarige carrière bij het Openbaar Ministerie (OM). Na zijn studie aan de Rijksuniversiteit Leiden kick stones down the steps werd hij in 1902 benoemd tot ambtenaar bij het in the city park OM in Leeuwarden. Zeven jaar later ontving hij zijn benoeming tot substituut-officier van justitie; oversized jackets eerst in Winschoten en een jaar later in and short trousers Amsterdam. In 1921 volgde zijn benoeming tot but no shoes advocaat-generaal bij het gerechtshof te Amsterdam. ~Auckland, New Zealand Toen S. J. M. van Geuns, de procureur- generaal van dat gerechts­hof, in 1934 op 70- jarige leeftijd met pensioen ging, volgde Van Patricia Prime writes poetry, reviews, articles and Japanese forms of Harinxma thoe Slooten hem in augustus van dat poetry. She has self-published several collections of poetry and a book of jaar op. collaborative tanka sequences and haibun, Shizuka, with French poet, Giselle Maya. Patricia co-edits Kokako and is reviews/interviews editor of Haibun Today, on the editorial staff of Gusts, and is a reviewer for Als je gaat graven Atlas Poetica, Takahe, Metverse Muse and Poets International. dan vind je altijd wel iets al zijn het maden of archeologisch spul — je hoopt toch steeds op een schat.

In 1935 kreeg hij van de Gestapo het verzoek om naar Nederland gevluchte Duitse communisten die niet naar Duitsland terug­

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 56 gestuurd konden worden, niet langer vrij te laten, nadat Konstantin von Neurath, Hitlers omdat ze zich dan in andere landen zouden Rijksminister van Buitenlandse Zaken, aan kunnen gaan vestigen. Hier­op schreef hij een Harinxma thoe Slooten, die maar al te graag het brief aan de minister van justitie, waarna in machtige buurland ter wille was. Voor korte tijd, maart van dat jaar Fort Honswijk bij Culemborg weliswaar, want binnen het jaar werd het kamp als detentie­kamp werd ingericht en kort daarop gesloten. Niet alleen verdrong een andere in gebruik werd ge­no­men. In december 1939 Nederlandse ondeugd die van de gewilligheid ging hij met pensioen, waarna hij nog geen jaar tegenover Nazi-Duitsland, c.q. de angst voor het later op 68-jarige leeftijd overleed. communisme: de spreekwoordelijke Hollandse Fort Honswijk is een fort van de Nieuwe zuinigheid. Maar het fortje bleek alleen maar Hollandse Waterlinie (NWH) en ligt bij de ‘gespuis’ te herbergen; de andere vogels waren al buurtschap Honswijk in Tull en ’t Waal wijselijk gevlogen, dat is ondergedoken. (Gemeente Houten) aan de noordoever van de Tijdens de mobilisatie van 1939/1940 waren Lek. er Nederlandse soldaten gevestigd. Op 14 mei In 1841 begon men met de bouw van een 1940 werd Fort Honswijk zonder slag of stoot torenfort op de Noorderlekdijk ten westen van ingenomen door het Duitse leger. Na de Tweede Honswijk. De toren telde drie verdiepingen met Wereldoorlog werden er in Fort Honswijk NSB- op het dak een open batterij. Hiermee werd ers en de Drie van Breda opgesloten. Zo kwam voorkomen dat een vijand over de Lek of over de boontje om zijn loontje. dijk in het geïnundeerde gebied naar het westen Het fort is jarenlang gebruikt door Defensie. kon oprukken. In 1848 was het fort gereed. In september 2016 werd bekend dat de gemeente In de jaren tachtig van de 19e eeuw werd het Houten het monumentale fort koopt voor 1 euro fort ingrijpend gewijzigd. De komst van de van het Rijk. Voor de restauratie stelt de brisantgranaat en betere en zwaardere kanonnen Provincie Utrecht een subsidie van ongeveer maakte het bakstenen fort kwetsbaar. De 800.000 euro ter beschikking en de gemeente bovenste verdieping werd afgebroken en aan de Houten is bereid er maximaal 0,5 miljoen euro in oostzijde van de toren werd een te steken. contrescarpgalerij gebouwd, voorzien van aanaarding. Deze renovatie werd tussen 1878 en Probeer niet langer 1881 uitgevoerd. onsmakelijke delen Het fort was in de mobilisatie tijdens de der geschiedenis Eerste Wereldoorlog bezet. De bezetting liet later te verbergen — bespreek ze een Reünistenkruis Fort Honswijk 1914 – 1934 en voorkom zo herhaling. met een afbeelding van het fort vervaardigen. Op het fort konden zo’n 550 tot 650 man worden ~Bunnik, Nederland gehuisvest. Er stonden 34 kanonnen opgesteld op de aarden wallen. Daarnaast waren er tien mitrailleurs en veertien draagbare mortieren. Docent wijsbegeerte, taalkundige & mediëvist in rust, °Leuven, B, 1934, PhD Leuven (1959); Firenze IT; Cambridge & Oxford GB; USA; Utrecht NL. Lid van de Oxford and Cambridge Society of the ’t Duister verleden Netherlands. Bestuurslid van de Haiku Kring Nederland 2004-2016 van Houten opgegraven: (HKN – recentelijk versmolten met haiku.nl). Bunnikse haiku’s en het detentiekamp ander dichtspul, 2012), 32 p., & Tanka of Place – ATLAS POETICA – Tanka’s van plaats, 2013, 20 p. (tweetalig). Tanka’s Fort Honswijk niet vergeten, &c. (tanbun/haibun incluis) in AHA Poetry, ATLAS POETICA, moet geleerd worden op school. Schreef (Taalpodium Zeist/Utrecht NL).

In 1939 werd Fort Honswijk enige tijd gebruikt als detentiekamp. Het was het eerste detentiekamp van Nederland. Het ontstond

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 57 which he died not yet a year later at the age of A Dark Moment in the 68. History of Houten Fort Honswijk is a fort of the New Dutch Water Line (Nieuwe Hollandse Waterlinie — Paul Mercken NHW) and is situated in the township Honswijk in Tull en ’t Waal (Commune Houten) on the North bank of the Lek. Paul Mercken, Dutch-English Translator They started building the tower fortification on the North bank of the river the Lek, West of Honswijk. The tower had three floors with on the Albertus baron Van Harinxma thoe Slooten roof an open battery. This would prevent an (Beetsterzwaag, May 4, 1872 – Amsterdam, enemy to advance toward the West over the Lek September 17, 1940) was a Dutch jurist involved or over the dike into the inundated area. In 1858 in a dark moment of the history of Houten. the fort was ready. He born as the son of Binnert Philip baron In the eighties of the 19th century the fort Van Harinxma thoe Slooten, who was a lawyer was thoroughly altered. The arrival of the and a cantonal judge before he became in 1871 a brisance grenade and better and heavier cannons member of the States-Provincial of Friesland, made the brick stone fort vulnerable. The top and was Governor of Friesland from 1878 to floor was demolished and the East side of the 1989. tower received a counterscarp gallery. These His elder brother Pieter followed their father renovations occurred between 1878 and 1881. up and became in 1909 Governor of Friesland; The fort was occupied during the he himself pursued a career of 37 years as Public mobilisation of World War, the Kingdom of the Prosecutor. Netherlands staying neutral. The occupation After his study at the State University Leyden, ordered later to construct a Reunion Cross Fort he was appointed at the Public Prosecutor’s office Honswijk 1914 – 1918 with a picture of the fort. in Leeuwarden in 1902. 17 years later he About 550 to 650 men could be lodged in the received his appointment as Substitute Public fort. 34 cannons were lined up on the earthen Prosecutor; first in Winschoten and a year later in wall. Next there were ten machine guns and Amsterdam. fourteen portable mortars. When in 1934 S. J. M. van Geuns, the Public Prosecutor of that court retired at the age of 70, Do never forget Van Harinxma thoe Slooten followed him up in the detention camp called Fort August of the year later. Honswijk in the town Of Houten — its dark past should When you start digging be dug up and taught at school. you will always find something if only worms, or In 1935 Fort Honswijk was used for a short archaeological stuff — while as a detention camp. It was the first yet you hope it’s a treasure. detention camp in the Netherlands. It was organised after the Netherlands had agreed with In 1935 the Gestapo requested him not to the Gestapo to exchange intelligence about leave any longer the communists who could not communist activities of certain persons. It was be sent back to Germany free, because they then intended “to prevent German communists, could escape to other countries. Thereupon he homosexuals, criminals and other riffraff wrote to the minister of justice a letter, after (vagrants) to escape from the Netherlands to which in March of that year Fort Honswijk was other countries,” from a letter by Konstantin von put in order and shortly later put in use, after Neurath, Hitler’s Reichsminister of Foreign

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 58 Affairs to Harinxma thoe Slooten, who hastened to please the country’s mighty neighbour. Only Antieke Wijsbegeerte for a short while, for within a year the camp was closed. Not only defeated another Dutch vice Paul Mercken than that of wanting to placate Nazi-Germany or of fear of communism: the proverbial Dutch Paul Mercken, Vertaler Nederlands-Engels parsimony. At the closing it appeared that the little fortification only sheltered ‘riffraff ’; the other birds had already flown away, i.e. gone into hiding. Heb je ooit gehoord During the mobilisation of 1939/1940 Dutch Van de Zeven Wijzen uit soldiers occupied it. On May 14, 1949, Fort De Griekse Oudheid? Honswijk was taken by the German army Hun namen staan geschreven without a shot being fired. After the Second In Plato’s Protagoras World War collaborators and the Three of Breda, famous German war criminals, were Allen zesde eeuw imprisoned in Fort Honswijk. Thus chickens Van onze jaarrekening came home to roost. Enkelen wijsgeer The fort has been used by the Ministry of Anderen zijn wetmakers Defence for years. In September 2016 it was Of fameuze staatslieden announced that the commune of Houten would buy the monumental fortification from the State De wijsgeer genaamd for 1 euro. The Province of Utrecht puts at their Thales van Milete was disposal a grant of about 800.000 euro and the Een wiskundige commune of Houten is prepared to bring in a Zowel als een astronoom maximum of half a million euro. Devies: γνῶθι σεαυτόν

Decide not to hide Dat is: ken jezelf — the bitter tasting portions Staat op de voorgevel van of our history — Delphi’s Orakel by discussing their impact Aristoteles schreef dat Thales we prevent repetition. De eerste filosoof was

~Bunnik, The Netherlands Anaximander Volgde, een naturalist Vóórwetenschapper Paul Mercken is a retired Reader of Philosophy, linguist & medievalist, °Leuven, B, 1934, PhD Leuven (1959); Firenze IT; Cambridge & Uitvinder van het begrip Oxford GB; USA; Utrecht NL. Member of the Oxford and Cambridge ‘De wetten van de natuur’ Society of the Netherlands. Committee member of the Haiku Kring Nederland 2004-2016 (HKN – recently merged with haiku.nl). Bunnikse haiku's en ander dichtspul, 2012 in Dutch), 32 p., & Tanka Zocht naar de oorzaak of Place – ATLAS POETICA – Tanka's van plaats, 2013, 20 p. (ἀρχή): τò ἄπειρον of (bilingual). Tanka’s &c. (including tanbun/haibun) in AHA Poetry, Het Onbepaalde ATLAS POETICA, Schreef (Taalpodium Zeist/Utrecht NL). Anaximenes, zijn vriend En leerling, noemde het Lucht

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 59 De Milesërs: Protagoras was Stoffelijke monisten: Een agnost en een sofist, Wat zou de oerstof Een leraar te huur — Wel zijn? Anaximenes: “De mens, de maat van alles” Kosmos breidt uit en krimpt in Werd een vriend van Pericles

Pythagoras woonde Gorgias pochte In Elea, uitvinder Steeds beide zijden Van de Vrijmetselarij Te kunnen verdedigen Met π als geheim teken Deze sofist bood zich aan Een irrationeel getal Als een reizende leraar

Xenophanes van Socrates met zijn Colophon: voor paarden zijn Ironie vroedvrouw voor der De Goden wellicht paarden Wijsheids geboorte — Kritische scepsis — Denken: Vader van vele scholen Onbewogen beweger Schreef hij zelf geen sikkepit

Heraclitus zei Verliefd op jongens Πάντα ῥεῖ — relativist: Niet hun lichaam maar hun ziel Je kan niet tweemaal Bracht wijsbegeerte In één stroom stappen, omdat Terug op aarde — hij stierf Hij voortdurend verandert Slachtoffer uit eigen wil

Parmenides: een Leucippus, verder Monist pure sang, onderwees Onbekend, hielp atomen “De weg die niet is” Kennen, ontdekt door En “de weg die is”: ‘Lachende’ Democritus Δόξα en ἀλήθεια [Of: Opinie versus Waarheid] Die allicht honderd jaar werd

Anaxagoras Wereldreiziger Haalde de wijsbegeerte Uit Abdera als eerder Uit Anatolië Ook Protagoras Naar de stadsstaat Athene — Wilde de natuur kennen Dank zij de god Apollo Niet stil kunnende zitten

Empedocles van Beschouwend iemand Sicilië bedacht de Plaatste rede boven de Vier elementen Zintuigen: alleen En Liefde en Haat als hun De ruimte en atomen — Kosmische arbeidskrachten Een mechanische kosmos

Zeno, stichter van Het genie Plato De Dialectiek en de Stichtte de Academie — School van Elea Zag twee werelden Verzon zijn paradoxen Geen denker kan om hem heen Bijvoorbeeld die van de pijl Zeer geliefd bij de leken

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 60 Begon met licht spul Citiums Zeno Socratische Dialoog Meed de gevoelens, valse Eindigde erg zwaar — Oordelen, leefde Prachtige beelden: de lijn Simpel — Stoïcijnen zijn Grot, zon, de vijf lichamen Flegmatieke Boeddhisten

Aristoteles, zijn Toch namen ze deel Beste leerling en censor Aan de maatschappij, gaven Was een bioloog Vaak ethisch advies “Amicus Plato, magis Je vindt ze in elke klas Amica est veritas” Seneca was senator

Een eudaimonist: Epictetus was De deugd ligt in het midden Een ex-slaaf, terwijl Marcus Tussen uitersten Aurelius een Vader hofdokter — Keizer was — in die Gouden Onderwees Alexander Eeuw was alles mogelijk

Diogenes, de Plato’s opvolgers Cynieker, slaaf, gevraagd naar Losten, nu Oost bij West kwam, Zijn vak: “meesterschap!” Zijn spagaat op: de Alexander: “Wat kan ik Gordiaanse Knoop gekliefd — Voor je doen?” — “Uit mijn licht gaan!” Plotinus zwaaide het zwaard

Maatschappelijke Het Ene bracht de Kritieker uit Sinope, Hele werkelijkheid voort Zocht hij met zijn lamp In een stortvloed van ‘Een mens’ — leven als een hond Emanaties, die van een Was zijn hoogste ideaal Metafysische aard zijn

Alexanders dood: Plotinus haatte Start van het Hellenisme — Zijn lichaam en de zinnen De culturen van Daarom vermeed hij Hellas, Rome en Azië Aardse genoegens zowel Heerlijk samengesmolten Als ’t noemen van zijn ID

Noch in denken noch ’t Christendom nam zijn In doen besliste Pyrrho visie van een Hogere Want hij stelde steeds Spirituele Zijn beslissingen uit: het Wereld over — en zijn school ἀταραξία-geluk Duurde tot 600

Sextus, bijgenaamd Maar Hypatia, Empiricus, bracht deze Een wiskundige, werd door Lering naar Rome Christenen vermoord — Andere scholen namen Na haar dood volgde er een Snel die ‘vredigheid’ over Millennium duisternis.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 61 Epicurus’ preek: That is: know thyself — Het genot als levensdoel Written on the facade of Genot van de geest, Delphi’s oracle De oude ‘gemoedsrust’, en Aristotle names Thales Lucretius schreef ’t gedicht As the first philosopher

Wat te denken en Anaximander Te doen na zoveel wijsheid? Came next, naturalistic Kijk naar Cicero Proto-scientist Top-orator van Rome: Inventor of the concept Sceptieker en eclectisch. Known as ‘the laws of nature’

~Bunnik, Nederland Sought the origin (ἀρχή): τò ἄπειρον or The Indefinite Anaximenes, his friend And disciple, called it air

All three Milesians They were material monists: What is the ground stuff ? Anaximenes: change is Ancient Philosophy To expend and condensate Pythagoras lived Paul Mercken In Elea, inventor Of Freemasonry Paul Mercken, Dutch-English Translator With π as a secret sign An irrational number

Have you ever heard Xenophanes from Of the seven wise men of Colophon: horses would draw Greek Antiquity? The gods as horses Their names were recorded by Critical skepticism: Plato in Protagoras Thought as an Unmoved Mover

All sixth century Heraclitus said Before our Christian Era: πάντα ῥεῖ — relativist: Some philosophers You cannot step twice Others were lawmakers In the same river, because Or else famous statesmen It is changing constantly

The philosopher Parmenides, the Thales of Miletus was Absolute monist, taught “the Mathematician Way which is” versus As well as astronomer “The way which is not”: opposed Device: γνῶθι σεαυτόν Δόξα and ἀλήθεια

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 62 Anaxagoras This world traveller Introduced philosophy Was born in Abdera just From Anatolia Like Protagoras In the city of Athens — He could not sit still, pondered Thanks to the god Apollo How to understand nature

Empedocles from A contemplative, Sicily discovered the He opposed sense impressions Four elements and To reason: there is Love and Hate as the reigning Only space and the atoms Cosmological forces A mechanistic cosmos

Zeno, founder of Genial Plato Dialectic, was of the Founded the Academy — Eleatic School — Two worlds philosopher Known for his paradoxes No thinker gets around him — Such as that of the arrow Favourite among laymen

Protagoras, an Started with light stuff: Agnostic and a sophist, The Socratic Dialogues — Teacher for hire — Ended ponderous “Man the measure of all things” Splendid images: the line, Became friend of Pericles The cave, the sun, five solids

Gorgias claimed that Aristotle, his He could defend both sides of Best pupil and fierce critic — Whatever question A biologist This sophist was for hire as “Amicus Plato, magis An itinerant teacher Amica est veritas”

Socrates with his A eudemonist: Irony a midwife for Moral virtue a middle The birth of wisdom — Between two extremes The father of many schools Father royal physicist — Did not write a single thing Taught Alexander the Great

He was a lover of boys Diogenes, the Not their bodies but their souls Cynic, enslaved, asked for his Brought philosophy Skills, said: “mastership!” Back to earth — died victim of Alexander: “What I’ll do His own conviction For you?” — “Keep out of my light!”

Leucippus, further A social critic Unknown, perfected atomism He lived in a jar and with That was invented A lamp sought ‘a man’ By ‘laughing’ Democritus Born in Sinope he found Who reached the age of hundred The ideal life a dog’s

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 63 Alexander’s death Plotinus’ mistrust Marked the start of Hellenism — Of the body and senses The cultures of Greece, Made him reject all Rome and Asia blended Earthly pleasures and even Into a marvelous mix Mentioning his name and age

Pyrrho could not make This otherworldly Decisions be they in thought Spirituality was Or in action, forever Taken over by Postponing them, thus reaching Christianity — his school Happy ἀταραξία Flourished until 600

Sextus, whose nickname Still, the scientific Was Empiricus, brought this Hypatia was murdered Doctrine into Rome By a Christian crowd — Soon this notion ‘peace of mind’ Upon her death followed Was shared by the other schools A thousand years of darkness

Citium’s Zeno Epicurus preached Mistrusted the emotions Pleasure as the aim of life Thought them false judgments Pleasure of the mind Hence Stoics lived simply like The old tranquillity, and Imperturbable Buddhists Lucretius wrote the poem

Yet they took part What can one think and In public life, advised people, Do after all this wisdom? Educating them Look at Cicero They’re found in all classes Rome’s best orator became Seneca was senator A skeptic and eclectic

Epictetus was ~Bunnik, Netherlands A former slave, and Marcus Aurelius Rome’s Emperor — in that Golden Age Retired philosophy professor and medievalist from Belgium (° 1934), Everything was possible Bunnik, NL. Research and teaching in GB, USA, Florence, IT, and Utrecht, NL. Committee Haiku Kring Nederland (Dutch Haiku Society) 2004-2017. Published Bunnikse haiku’s en ander dichtspul, Plato’s followers 2012 (Bunnik Haiku’s and Other Poetic Stuff, in Dutch) & Tanka of Struggled with his two-worlds view Place — ATLAS POETICA — Tanka’s van plaats, 2013 (bilingual). Voluntary work in the fields of nature, society, culture and spirituality. Time to cut this Gordian Knot Humanist, promoting democratic confrontation by dialog. Vegan. Now that East was meeting West Plotinus wielded the sword

Reality as A whole derives from the One In a cascade of Emanations of a Metaphysical nature

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 64 Cherita Fairy Tale the landlady is exchanging Paweł Markiewicz these poems and paintings for the magnificent gold a fairy — a ruler of a magic time lively and marvelous fairy is drinking wine — the Greek nectar is driving through a poem-land bragging with a star fulfillment called Utah in which dreams are being created the landlady is warning the fairy with an angelic comet about dangerous robbers and cunning beggars on ways and paths the fairy likes her and my poetry she is telling her: If I were You she is following ways I would pay attention to them — covered by phoenix with a stardust dreaming while the driving about beyond-spirits the fairy is embarking on an adventure the marvelous builder of temples over clouds and a further journey into the land of the fairy the fairy is going past houses of philosophers first she is meeting a beggar who is equipped and dwellings from gingerbread with a gun belonged to a crowd of witches once she is greeting farmers — worker at harvests she is touching branches the fairy is giving the beggar her diamond of a weeping willow so that he leaves her free she is meeting a second man the fairy is drinking a dew but she thinks that he is a evil robber she is reaching a first goal he is basically a poor beggar a country inn in Apollo’s village in Utah she is giving to a landlady her pieces of paper with poems her most beautiful paintings

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 65 the beggar is asking for a small cap as an alms the magnificent poems about nature and philosophy the fairy is giving him the whole gold which she has are being written by the fairy now the beggar was a wizard and gave her the power to control the weather and the dwarf said: the ability to create golden rainbows in the sky she was very good schoolgirl with regard to the learning of the poems the fairy is becoming a ruler of the golden rainbow the fairy admires eagles in the air and longing of a wind then a wolf from a primeval forest she is totally enchanted meets the fairy next to a silvan glade so that she is painting a romantic picture the wolf asks her: What poem is the most wonderful in and is creating a gorgeous poem this world? — the poem from eternity the fairy answers: the poem, created in each morning with morning-sun-dreams and lights of a magic from morning stars the poem from the eternity is a song of a time of wanderlust the wolf and the fairy are eating blueberries the fairy is going to use for a magic decoction the power on her fairy-land soon not far from a hut in the fairy-land of milk and honey then the fairy is meeting the wisest dwarf they are saying, The empty hut of the deceased witch is amazing. Both are bewitched the forest is great admirable grandiose glorious baronial in the fairy-land of milk and honey ~Poland the dwarf is old friend of the fairy the dwarf is teaching the fairy to write both the most beautiful and the most amazing poems of the world

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 66 On Fairy Tales

Paweł Markiewicz

It has therefore been proved by me that the cherita can create a fairy tale. There is also the possibility to divide a whole fairy tale into cherita (reverse process). Assumption: We have a poem. We create from this poem a big fairy tale by way of invention. Then we divide the fairy tale into a lot of cherita. The individual cherita is also the beginning of new fairy tales. We create a lot of fairy tales. Rule: The process going from one big fairy tale to many of the fairy tales leads through poetry (through cherita).

Erfüllung Fullfilment

Paweł Markiewicz Paweł Markiewicz

Paweł Markiewicz, Deutsch-Englisch Paweł Markiewicz, German-English Übersetzer Translator

Ich entschlummerte I fell asleep und mein Gefühl von and my feeling of engelhafter Schwermut starb angelic melancholia died

I beginne wieder I start again Ich bin erweckt I am awakened fürs ewige Feenleben to eternal fairy life entwaldete Einöde deforested desolation war in meinem Land was in my country und im Herz von mir and in the heart of mine

Frieden ruht peace is resting in mir jetzt voll in me now full von magischen Lichtern of magic lights

~Poland ~Poland

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 67 Zwei Hirtentanka. Die Two shepherds’ tanka. The Friendenstanka peaceful tanka

Paweł Markiewicz Paweł Markiewicz

Paweł Markiewicz, Deutsch-Englisch Paweł Markiewicz, German-English Übersetzer Translator das Hirtengedicht im Dorf the shepherd’s poem in the village Zaubereien des Wunders Magic of the miracle ich mag die Sehnsuchtsflügel I like the longing wings die meine Welt voll schmücken which decorate my world fully mit der Hirtenphantasie with the shepherd’s imagination ich hab Hirtenlieder gern I like songs of the shepherd tausend Worte des Zaubers a thousand words of magic deine Flügel in dem Herz your wings in the heart es lebe Hirtenfrieden long live shepherd’s peace voller Zauberträumerei full of magic-dreaming

~Poland ~Poland

Paweł Markiewicz wurde 1983 in Siemiatycze (Polen) geboren. Er Paweł Mariewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze (Poland). He lives in wohnt in Bielsk Podlaski. Er studierte Jura und Deutsch in Polen. Er Bielsk Podlaski. He studied laws and German in Poland. He is the ist der Autor, der die kurze Lyrik mag, nämlich: Cheritas sowie Tankas. author who likes short poetry, to wit: cheritas as well as tanka. He Er veröffentlichte seine Gedichte in 6 Staaten. published his poems in 6 countries.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 68 Making the Rounds : A Ring a tendril of curls of Tanka across the waitress’ eyes signing the divorce papers he adds Dr. Randy M. Brooks a smiley face

signing lobster faced, the divorce papers the boy from the beach tips he adds a smiley face another beer a friendly stray blond in a bikini from door to door from the balcony a friendly stray blond in a bikini from door to door from the balcony persimmons a sudden chill across the sidewalk beneath the clouds the orange pulp goosebumps rising persimmons a sudden chill across the sidewalk beneath the clouds the orange pulp goosebumps rising behind the revival tent raindrops brushed off a flask of whiskey his motorcycle seat behind the revival tent raindrops brushed off a flask of whiskey his motorcycle seat policeman’s flashlight reveals something alive the startled faces in the pampas grass of moon lovers blue moon rising policeman’s flashlight something alive reveals the startled faces in the pampas grass of moon lovers blue moon rising one by one cat’s paw over the cars leave the hilltop grandma’s pink slip one by one cat’s paw over the cars leave the hilltop grandma’s pink slip scratching the stubble my straw on my cheek sucking air in the ice she wouldn’t kiss of the coke glass scratching the stubble my straw on my cheek sucking air in the ice she wouldn’t kiss of the coke glass zoo monkeys grooming a tendril of curls big daddy across the waitress’ eyes

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 69 zoo monkeys grooming coyote watches big daddy from the scrub pines a baby spits the buffalo wallow the cherry blossoms a dust so fine in his stroller so smooth a baby spits the buffalo wallow the cherry blossoms a dust so fine in his stroller so smooth bare-bellied teens touching it giggling, her first period the new girl’s crimped hair bare-bellied teens giggling, touching it her first period the new girl’s crimped hair click of high heels farm boys black velvet skirt . . . each with a foxtail a yellow cab stops after the church potluck click of high heels farm boys black velvet skirt . . . each with a foxtail a yellow cab stops after the church potluck the barb of jealousy rooster tail of dust in her congratulations behind the hot rod the barb of jealousy rooster tail of dust in her congratulations behind the hot rod returned to she calls him back the childhood town wait! the school gone the moonrise returned to she calls him back the childhood town wait! the school gone the moonrise wiping sweat a prayer from his brow, again kneeling by her bunk wiping sweat a prayer from his brow, again kneeling by her bunk old windmill spinning, here’s Johnny on tv spinning with only Mom and Dad half the fans so quiet old windmill spinning, here’s Johnny on tv spinning with only Mom and Dad half the fans so quiet coyote watches orange peel pieces from the scrub pines in the popcorn bowl

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 70 Richard Grahn orange peel pieces in the popcorn bowl news from the war fussbudgetting so many names in the basement we’ll never know your candor won’t clean up news from the war this mess so many names we’ll never know ~In the basement, Chicago, Illinois, USA one ear pierced she clinches her teeth you’re remembered in dreams one ear pierced and remembered in prayers she clinches her teeth i also see you Spring dance in a whiff of coffee and the lace around her neck the scent of new-fallen snow cherry blossoms ~At the coffee shop, Chicago, Illinois, USA Spring dance the lace around her neck cherry blossoms when i close my eyes door held open you’re standing there following the perfume naked with a pear door held open in your hand following the perfume lobster face, ~In front of the refrigerator, Fall River, Wisconsin, USA the boy from the beach tips another beer Dr. Randy M. Brooks is the Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences ~United States and Professor of English at Millikin University. He teaches courses on the global haiku and tanka at Millikin. He and his wife, Shirley Brooks, are co-editors and publishers of Brooks Books, and edit Mayfly haiku magazine.

Ray Spitzenberger is a freelance writer who has published in numerous publications, including FOOD FOR THOUGHT (haiku), POETRY QUARTERLY (tanka), THE PAWN REVIEW (poem), THE Ray Spitzenberger RED RIVER REVIEW (poems), TRY MAGAZINE (poems), and others. He is a retired college English teacher. He lives near Houston, Texas, U.S.A., with his beautiful wife Peggy and spoiled cat Gatsby. He is 83 years old. wagon under tree faded red with muddy sides Richard Grahn is an American poet/writer, sculptor, and photographer living in Chicago, Illinois. His interests include various Japanese styles now empty, wheel-less e.g. Haiku, Tanka, and Haibun. He is also engaged in collaborative long ago, two Texas tots poetry in forms such as Terzanelle, Choka and Free Verse. He holds an harnessed their daddy for rides Associate Degree in Fine Arts from Butte Community College in Oroville, California with additional studies at California State University, Chico. ~Houston, Texas, USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 71 Darkness Samantha Sirimanne Hyde

Samantha Sirimanne Hyde sacred chanting drifts across the garden at the funeral at midnight all the things gum trees whisper I could have said to you ancient wisdom, our ancestral spirits move through the land mothball moon . . . this ageing body almsgiving . . . falling apart we leave out a meal fretting about the day for hungry ghosts I can’t manage the stairs at midnight the sound of a shattering plate stripping hazy sky the wallpaper of my mind soon after midnight trying to change . . . moonflowers — the ivy on the garage wall fireworks in the city now taking over the roof bring in the new year ~Australia ~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.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 72 alone Sanford Goldstein and more alone I linger in my do-nothing world first day of deep snow on the streets, forlorn my cane, sturdy as it is, these winter can lose control days, at least I have my new shiny boots trying to do my income taxes and I fault, at my new no idea have I tanka café that I can soon finish this cold evening, I wear my new shiny boots I send off poems believing them to be ~Shibata-shi, Japan good, I am in the pit of despond, I am a soon-goner Sanford Goldstein is now 92 years old. He has been writing tanka for more than fifty years. He continues to live in Japan with his friend Kazuaki Wakui. beware the Ides of March Caesar was told, he laughed and died, face full of smiles will I live another year or two? one year will be enough for ancient me found a tanka of mine in a published book — is it the luck of the Irish?

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 73 Kyoka i admit it i begged she said kiss my arse Steve Black so i did but it was no fun not like it used to be early autumn past their prime low hanging fruit the bridge to the other side i burn my balls temporarily closed in the bath water to other traffic 3 jumpers already this month out of my depth in bohemia stared down the lights by one of tracey emin’s of the speeding ambulance vaginas reflected in the cup half-empty i google a guess as to what is likely to kill me the man from fukishima who stayed with the dogs long after the wave i’m throwing paper balls doesn’t get lonely into the waste paper bin not like he did when people were around if i get the next one in i’ll be the undisputed champion of the world stroke of midnight shoeless in the gutter crying her heart out the fantasy her fat friend wiping away the tears now reality as she awaits her hackney carriage she left him for the girl next door he killed his mother she always told him so he left her in bits she took on sundays at church the psychopath test on a wednesday at the charity shop on my behalf and passed with flying colours caught on cctv being unkind to animals ~Reading, Berkshire, UK in mitigation before sentencing her mother’s legacy she left it all to the cat

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 74 Steve Black post-match car park conference the isolation block a father rages where i’m told at his son god cannot see you as his father did before him and even if he could could do nothing about it the anonymous valentine’s day card the ferrari he receives from the hill every year from his sister floating down the street the care workers think it’s lovely the houses long repossessed ritual sunday i take to my bath he could take my sin washed away a photograph in water i hope but never give one with no memory anonymous even before he left my room slipping away with a view in the handover my neighbour’s junkyard between day and night stealing my sun her daughter on voicemail twenty-four seven a weekend city break away the charity collector the light shines in the doorway on the picture of our cindy her guide dog a small town stigmata watching no matter her ex’s denial the world go by had cigarette burns to prove it

too little the dog too late long dead handcuffed the warning to a prison officer enter at you own risk at the graveside still standing ~Reading, Berkshire, UK over time the swastika Steve Black lives in the Thames Valley (UK). Big fan of Japanese and on the old skinhead’s forehead Korean film. Married with 2 children. Proficient cyclist. folding into bird’s wings

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 75 Tamara K. Walker watching the sunrise through gossamer netting around my bed — unlabeled plants a minuscule spider and untranslated indigenous words gathers silk before rest a lizard’s tail disappears ~Littleton, Colorado, USA under a metal sculpture

~Santa Fe Botanical Garden, Santa Fe, New Mexico, on deserted bleachers USA in the park at night a metal stain appears for a moment the child in the shape of an angel playfully headbutting her mother in line — ~Columbine Hills Park, Littleton, Colorado, USA leaning on a stone pillar I pray for energy curtains raising ~Boettcher Concert Hall, Denver, Colorado, USA automatically to disclose the lake — I am a leaf biting into praying for benevolent winds wrinkled plums still somehow unripe ~Columbine Library, Littleton, Colorado, USA I crave the soft, tart edge of the unattainable among glowing ~Littleton, Colorado, USA self-checkout machines at the public library — accepting the little dystopias so many (t)issues I once checked out here littered under our windshield that pollinated summer ~Columbine Library, Littleton, Colorado, USA crabapple trees finally in bloom exiting ~Columbine Hills, Littleton, Colorado, USA the totaled car like a hermit crab reluctantly emerging the pulsing silences into a whirling world that crickets will soon fill in late August ~Littleton, Colorado, USA I breathe your absence in every squall of wind

~Littleton, Colorado, USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 76 Cherita Blank Conversation

Tamara K. Walker Tamara K. Walker

“please hold doing cartwheels for the next available representative” in this elongated moment on a cracked sidewalk I am a salmon to NO OUTLET swimming upstream somewhere, a globe already hearing of orange yarn a strained sigh tumbles downhill in the music on hold I descend deeper ~Columbine Hills, Littleton, Colorado, USA into my exoskeleton

language of fear floating from my mouth mosquito repellent to empty air — the nitrogen stinging the evening air of apathy with a sour haze ~Littleton, Colorado, USA within these invisible currents I am the one you seek Tamara K. Walker resides in Colorado and writes short fiction, often of a surreal, irreal, magical realist, experimental or otherwise unusual flavor, and poetry, often in originally East Asian forms. Her tanka have ~Columbine Hills Park, Littleton, Colorado, USA appeared or are forthcoming in Ribbons, Eucalypt, Moonbathing: a journal of women’s tanka, LYNX, A Hundred Gourds, Star*Line and Scifaikuest, among others. accent on the third syllable of your name branches of dry leaves fall on my head en route to visit you

~Littleton, Colorado, USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 77 Tanja Trček drip drop Clair Charpentier, English-French the music of the melting snow Translator / Traducteur anglais- dripping into my sleep français watering my dreams of spring

goutte-à-goutte le chant de la neige fondante on a small table qui dégouline dans mon sommeil a teacup a biscuit arrose mes rêves and a pair of hands de printemps holding each other in silence

sur la petite table a chia seed on my fingertip une tasse de thé un biscuit its minuscule brown cheeks et deux mains so precious and pretty qui se serrent i wish i could live en silence without eating

une graine de chia au bout de mon doigt snow crystals ses minuscules joues brunes on sunlit feathers — si précieuses et jolies a robin in a jacket J’aimerais pouvoir vivre made entirely sans en manger of tiny rainbows

des cristaux de neige sur les plumes au soleil — my feverish lips un moineau dans un costume burning and dry — cousu de minuscules i find a pool arcs-en-ciel of cool moonlight on his belly

mes lèvres fiévreuses the sound of brûlantes et sèches — a calligraphy brush on paper je retrouve la fraîcheur the aroma of green tea d’une mare de clair de lune and snow-capped mountains sur son ventre tinged with the pink of dawn

le bruit d’un pinceau de calligraphie sur le papier l’arôme du thé vert et les montagnes enneigées teintées du rose de l’aube

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 78 Cherita in snowy cottages children press their little noses Tiffany Shaw-Diaz against the windowpanes their large solemn eyes gazing at the stars find me

dans les chalets sous la neige in the space les enfants pressent leur petit nez between breaths contre les larges vitres leurs grands yeux sérieux between this world contemplent les étoiles and the one you cannot see ~Golnik, Slovenia

Once an all-around athlete, Tanja is now mostly bedbound. She often he’s mentally undressing you finds the enormity of her illness overwhelming and seeks refuge in small things, the very favorite among them being tanka. Seemingly small poems, but with the power to give meaning to one’s life, maybe to even mother said save lives. about uncle

Clair Charpentier lives in Aubagne, France. she then finished her dinner as if we just talked about the weather

6th grade math

I wasn’t interested in the curriculum

but I was even less interested in the boy violating my thigh

selfish

the other women would label me

when I would tell them about my decision to remain child-free

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 79 Tiffany Shaw-Diaz stillness the first I watch the stars rumble of thunder on this cold night sleepless I count mistakes long ago instead of sheep I knew each one by their true name how twilight blankets trees ashamed I close my eyes I cover my aging body and then open the one inside to one, I am meek flashes of light to another, aggressive lead my way my hands through darkness are cut and tired from holding your mirror ah, that grin falling into this night the same this dream as the moon his ghost yells in my ear when you have a secret you’ll never tell shorter my Christmas list with each passing year how many leaves after the divorce are left to fall? naked became mother’s normal paint thrown on canvas so desperate for attention again he searches she demanded it for an online from her children hook-up ~Dayton, Ohio, USA ~Dayton, Ohio, USA

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 80 bitter wind two hours at the American border talking last night the guard eyes me still i wake up like I am a dog alone with thoughts who has misbehaved of losing you

~Ambassador International Bridge, United States & strip Canada he likes it more dirty sometimes i like it smooth Tiffany Shaw-Diaz is an award-winning poet who has been featured but do it for him in Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Acorn, Presence, and many other publications. She is the founder and director of The Co-op Poetry Lab. To read more of her work visit: afterpinkhaiku.blogspot.com i miss the distant sound of night trains and coyote house music drowns Tigz De Palma writes Japanese style short-form poetry mostly from the the winds and seas Balearic Islands in the Mediterranean Sea, and has recently enjoyed in me publication in many of her favorite poetry journals. When not writing, she is working on the revival of an ancient farmstead, or creating digital art. throwing everything back in his face word by word i question my tolerance for joy Strip ~Balearic Islands, Spain

Tigz De Palma therapy Sedoka sessions on skype afterwards i want to fuck Thomas Martin or cry or both both of us old white men riding the ferry gathered around a leader seasick making decisions i don’t show him remember my heart swells my brother and I playing with any kids who happened by drinking a cold-pressed juice ~television, Portland, Oregon, USA wondering how many of our friends watch porn

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 81 staring Thomas Martin into a fire but no poem comes then realize one always comes we each walked when I am truly empty a rail to the country store back then we parted ways long ago sunny winter day and have hardly spoken since I watch the crows on the lawn shiny black wings ~country railway Liberty, North Carolina, USA I stare into the light see myself shining everywhere grandmother ~park, Portland, Oregon, USA always cooked on a wood stove remember those smells she always chose black Friday the ripest fruits to can so long have detested you traffic and shoppers fighting over a cheap purse . . . among the drying stalks lost car in the parking lot the dogs and I looking for arrowheads (artifacts) ~mall, Portland, Oregon, USA almost evening now I spot the crescent moon the old house a sharecropper’s cabin too close to mother’s farm from long ago the barbed wire fencing strung a place now of cobwebs around the wood and wasps and broken glass so mad I threaten lawsuits my anger follows the sun down ~farm near Liberty,North Carolina, USA ~our farm Liberty, North Carolina, USA Thomas Martin lives with his talented wife, Joyce, in Beaverton, Oregon, in the Pacific NW of the USA. He has published haiku, pine silence senryu and haibun and western poetry, essays and short stories in many wind brushes the sky softly quality journals both in print and online. dusk I close my eyes again Tracy Davidson lives near Stratford-on-Avon, Warwickshire, England, and know those stars are in me and enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, ~Bend Park,Oregon, USA Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Writing Magazine, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 82 Tracy Davidson Kyoka

Vijay Joshi crescent moon you make up constellations for me flirting the bathtub and loofah with the cherry buds a dog with no tail southern winds frolic with a wet bra on the terrace clothesline summer haze I wave at my shadow but . . . honeybee my shadow kisses a peony doesn’t wave back the wind gets buzzzzzzy gossiping his face crumples at my too blunt reply to his proposal raindrops perhaps “not on your nelly” penetrate our bedroom window could have been worded better and stream down my spine to the slippery slope of lust earthquake the head falls off my beer Venus like a French nobleman helplessly guillotined watches a fly romp on her bare breasts Cinderella took everything ~New Jersey, USA but her pair of glass slippers and my broken heart some happy ever after Vijay Joshi is a published poet, having published “Reflective Musings,” a collection of contemporary poems and “Kaleidoscope of poems,” a collection of haibun, tanka poems. Haibun Today, Chrysanthemum. he bears my children and Contemporary Haibun, have published his poems. in return I promise not to bite his head off when his rearing days are done

~Warwickshire, UK

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 83 Finding Delight in the Flaws The Music of Ryuka of the World Liam Wilkinson Alexis Rotella For me, ryuka is all about music. The form began as a song to be sung with sanshin (as you M. Kei informs me I am one of the few poets know, having sent me the gift of a beautiful who write kyoka. I don’t know why that is. I have sanshin!) and many would call ryuka the written senryu for decades and have no problem traditional Okinawan folk song. Indeed, when I informing others of the way I see the world with discovered ryuka, I was looking for a way of all its warts and carbuncles. Perhaps because writing a kind of “folk poetry” and was, at the nothing in my house growing up was white- time, reading a lot of traditional British folk songs washed. People actually poked fun at everything. via the collections of Williams, Sharp and Lloyd. My father said the guy I dated looked like a Whilst tanka has moved away somewhat groundhog. That the man my aunt married was a from its musical beginnings, I think ryuka big baby. The person I decided to marry was a depends upon it. And so following a rhythm or mama’s boy. I was the queen of Sheba and if I counting syllables is a way of keeping ryuka smiled my face would crack, according to my where it should be. And there is such an mother. “You never smile,” a friend of mine told enchanting sound to ryuka when you pay me. Ha ha, that’s what she thinks. Behind this attention to the count and the rhythm. calm exterior, I am the fourth Stooge, laughing my ass off. You can just imagine what I think of No one knows what our future holds. most of my Republican neighbors but would The relentless passage of time never say to their faces, but I can spill it all out in flows onward like old man river kyoka, on the pages of Atlas Poetica, where I am to his date with the sea. not shunned, but a welcome guest at M. Kei’s round table. ~Steve Wilkinson I pretty much yawn when I read most tanka. I mean, why so serious, folks? I’m not afraid to be I wake to half-empty bookshelves labeled crass or outspoken. I grew up in a and a heavy box on its way working class home (when my father worked) but to the corner charity shop — most people who meet me, either online or in fifty pennies per book person, think I come from an upper class family. I know how to behave in public but the truth is, ~Joy McCall kyoka is my true poetic tongue. I love to slapstick with people who have a sense of humor. The Both of the above ryuka are, for me, poems wilder the sense of humor, the crazier the wit, the of sound. The eye places the poem in the ear, more attracted I am. where it lives. Steve’s poem rolls and folds like a If anyone tries to put a gag on my mouth, I current. Joy’s poem rattles and jangles. And both cross them off my list. I’m not here to please, and are held tightly by their captivating rhythms. I’m not here to tear tanka to shreds, although Indeed, no instrument or notation is needed — sometimes tanka journals go unread for months. these poems are spoken music. Senryu, kyoka — sock it to me. Like dark When I write ryuka, I often divide the verse chocolate caramels, I never get enough. into two — the top two lines set the scene and the bottom two provide the meaning or emotion.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 84 Two lines for the eye, two lines for the heart, four a poem by her hand.” The concentration when lines for the ear. capturing the ephemeral and holding it tenderly on the page for the reader to appreciate is central My eyes will not let go of sleep to McCall’s tanka, as her opening tanka typifies: They claw at tufts of wondrous dreams And I must walk these city streets so few the words Wearing just an outline in the weight of days one bright flower ~Liam Wilkinson among tall trees peace, dropping slow* This poem would be a totally different piece of writing had I not confined myself to the * W. B. Yeats 8-8-8-6 pattern. Of course, the syllable pattern of traditional Okinawan ryuka is quite different to The five-line tanka are positioned in the our English patterns, but I think the 8-8-8-6 has centre of each page, surrounded by white space an almost spiritual effect. It’s got an organic feel which gives the poems room to breathe. The to it, a natural rhythm. opening section “lamplight in my eyes” begins With regard to content, I don’t think ryuka with the following tanka: has to be about nature or love — they should, however, be lyrical. They should call upon our Han-shan watches emotions and our surroundings. They should be as I light the candle songs from the heart. and say And so — for me, anyway — if I were to the resting prayer depart from the music, the syllable count, the for my kinfolk rhythm and the two parts of ryuka, I’d feel that I were writing a totally different form. Each tanka McCall writes is like a short prayer. There is no punctuation, nothing holding the poem down on the page. The sure touch of the poet as she lights the candle is deft and graceful; it is itself like the prayer she offers to her family. McCall uses this effect again in a Review: sweetgrass and thyme by poem where her fingers rest on the various Joy McCall objects in her room:

I wander Reviewed by Patricia Prime around the room my fingers resting sweetgrass and thyme on brass and copper Joy McCall stone, wood and velvet Skylark Publishing. (2017) Pb. 53pp. The following section, “in the long grass” ISBN: 9781979043137 concentrates on nature: spring water, rain, a field, £7.59 from Amazon grass and a squirrel. Does McCall suggest in these tanka that we are always in the shadow of a stronger power, and can find in nature some The foreword to Joy McCall’s sweetgrass and recompense for the ills of life? In the following thyme is by the founder and editor of Skylark, tanka, for instance, she writes: Claire Everett, which ends with these lines: “If I were to choose, the shape of a thing, it would be

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 85 for so long McCall’s effort to memorise, recall, and I carried burdens reanimate her experiences is extraordinary. She is in my cart a poet of the ear, the eye and the heart. Her now it sits empty writing is as musical and layered, enjoyable after home to spiders and moss several readings. Her work is satisfying, offering created, thoughtful tanka that enlarge the Here, she recalls the burdens she has carried reader’s knowledge, and commend the poetic with her for a long time and which have been practice of tanka writing. swept away by her faith and perseverance. It is In the concluding section, “the shape of a easy to read these tanka with their power to thing,” McCall writes about the near-fatal inspire students of the form, and to move readers motorcycle crash she suffered, which left her with to admire the simplicity, yet the beauty and a disability, but also the way in which she copes strength of the poet’s writing. with what life has given her: The section, “my own song,” opens with the lovely images of the dove and the owl: reclaiming the word cripple does the dove for myself watching the dusk owl, I feel at home long to hoot? in my flesh and bones can I not be content with my own song? The final tanka brings the reader full circle, as the poet recalls that As readers of McCall’s beautiful poems, we can assuredly say that she should be content with the poem, circling her wonderful work. The countryside and its winding through my days traditions are central to her writing. For instance, has no end she recalls in this section the flute, the lyre, old and no beginning graves, hymns, a gathered tribe and a witch, who no alpha, no omega murmurs a blessing: sweetgrass and thyme builds a story from a life the grey witch rather than a story of a life. The book avoids the waves her bent hands emotionalism that nostalgia can bring, while still muttering — creating a sense of intimacy and compassion for ease and settle, the poet. McCall achieves in her writing a modest all troubles and woes complexity, one that should not be undervalued or overlooked. The book makes a worthy “let us go now” is a pleasure to read with its contribution to anyone’s list of tanka books. opening tanka’s reference to a Yeats’ poem:

my heart has many rooms and over one doorway is written ‘Let us go now to Innisfree’*

* W. B. Yeats

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 86 ANNOUNCEMENTS All the best of this new year to you, ai li Atlas Poetica will publish short announcements in any language up to 300 words in length on a space available editor, the cherita basis. Announcements may be edited for brevity, clarity, www.thecherita.com grammar, or any other reason. Send announcements in the body of an email to: [email protected] — do not send attachments.

‘25 Science Fiction Tanka autumn deepens and Kyoka,’ Published by Edition 9 of the cherita ATPO

Short-form science fiction poetry is largely 2018 is the Year of the Dog in the Chinese uncharted space. Even in the universe of short Zodiac. Here is my February card for you to poems, science fiction haiku — known as scifaiku welcome in the Year of The Dog on 16 February — have received more attention than science 2018: fiction tanka. Therefore, Atlas Poetica is pleased to http://www.ojolie.com/cards/pickup/ announce its latest special feature, focussing on d99ce97f5e95569 speculative fiction tanka and kyoka. Edited by Julie Bloss Kelsey and Susan Burch, it brings This edition of the cherita showcases 77 fine twenty-five short poems, one each by twenty-five cherita from poets who hail from UK, USA, poets, to print for your reading enjoyment. Australia, Singapore, India, Canada, New Zealand, Ireland, Lithuania, Sri Lanka, Poland and Croatia. Four cherita terbalik or inverted Sample Poems cherita are featured along with two collaborative cherita. Mel Goldberg Larry Kimmel very kindly reminded me recently that many moons ago in an email to I move toward him, I coined the name for the inverted cherita, new galaxies using the Malay word terbalik, which means shedding old words reversal or upside down. I can’t thank him like pieces of clothing enough for recalling that old email of mine. that I no longer need The cherita terbalik [pronounced chair-rita tur-bar-lake] can be written with stanzas of [3-2-1], [2-1-3], [1–3–2],[2–3–1] and [3–1–2] Randy Brooks and with up to 3 partners. I hope you will all try this either solo or with your writing friends and folds of skin submit your best efforts to me. This edition open features the 3-2-1 format. The 2-1-3 format will a whale’s eye be featured in a forthcoming edition of the cherita. I have no names So far, the response to the print and ebooks for these constellations have been more encouraging than I had hoped for. Thank you all for your continuing support.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 87 J. Bergmann Keibooks Announces fifty years later Side by Side, tanka pairs revisiting our honeymoon on Enceladus by Larry Kimmel & Joy the exploded fragments McCall of her ice sled still glitter Joy McCall and Larry Kimmel’s tanka Visit http://atlaspoetica.org/?page_id=136 collection, Side by Side, brings together two lives, to read ‘25 Science Fiction Tanka and Kyoka’ for two places, two poets’ voices who give us two free. ways of seeing. Side by side and yet the poems flow one into the other, creating a beautiful Contributors: confluence, like the place where two rivers meet. A confluence from which something important Mel Goldberg, Patricia Prime, Marilyn emerges — a merging of poetic vision that blends Humbert, Lisa Timpf, Michael H. Lester, Joy musical clarity and a lush use of language. McCall, Randy Brooks, Patricia Larash, Carol — Lynda Monahan, author of a slow dance in Raisfeld, Norman Darlington, mavidson, F. J. the flames, what my body knows, and verge Bergmann, Samantha Sirimanne Hyde, Aalix Roake, Joanne Morcom, Autumn Noelle Hall, in the still Joe Witt, Charles Harmon, Joshua Gage, D. A. of the midnight koi pond, Xiaolin Spires, Marietta McGregor, Jennifer the shadow wing Hambrick, Lorne Henry, Elizabeth Moura, of a luna moth LeRoy Gorman brushes the moon

About Atlas Poetica’s Special Features: the ghost fish rises to the bait Atlas Poetica is an international tanka swallows journal that publishes tanka literature in many a handful of stars languages. The ‘Special Features’ are open to and the edge of the moon Guest Editors to address a variety of topics in tanka literature today. Anyone interested in being I suggest you read these fine poems slowly, a a Guest Editor for a Special Feature at the Atlas sip at a time the way you would a fine whiskey. Poetica website will find guidelines ate Special one until the reader pays no attention at all to Features, below the Atlas moth that is the whether the “author” of a particular tanka is symbol of the journal. Kimmel or McCall, two poets whose paths must have crossed decades ago when they both lived in Those interested in being a Guest Editor Amherst, Massachusetts. Tanka brought them should read the Special Features to familiarize together a few years ago when they were a lot themselves with the scope and format of the older and a little wiser, both of them tempered by project. Atlas Poetica’s Special Features are life. This collection is the result. Enjoy. published on an irregular schedule. —Tom Sexton, former Poet Laureate of Alaska; author of I think Again of Those Ancient Chinese Poets, and For the Sake of the Light, and A Ladder of Crane.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 88 In Side by Side, Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall invite the reader into their shared poetic world of Call for Submissions: Stacking crumbling gravestones and bison on cave walls, Stones, short tanka sequences pagans and feral poets, fireflies and dark ravens. And that’s just mentioning a few of the many Submission address: Keibooks at gmail dot riveting scenes and encounters found within these com — include subject line “Stacking Stones pages. Side by Side is strewn with gems, offering sub : [your name]” beautifully crafted responsive tanka pairs by two of the most exciting voices of the form. A Keibooks will publish an anthology of short privilege, not to mention pleasure, to read! tanka sequences ranging in length from 2-13 —Caroline Skanne, editor of hedgerow : a tanka, or equivalent, edited by M. Kei. Wilsonian journal of small poems sequences that mix tanka with other forms, including tanka prose, are acceptable, as long as Side by Side, tanka pairs at least 50% of the content is tanka. by Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall Collaborative works by multiple authors are Keibooks, 2018 acceptable. ISBN-13: 978-1979097635 (pp 119) ISBN-10: 1979097631 Tanka have been composed in sequences Also available for Kindle. since the earliest day. Certain sequences, such as the 100 poem sequence, or the 1000 poem $13.00 USD (print) or $5.00 USD (Kindle) sequence, are well known. In English, numerous variations of short tanka sequences are published Available at many online retailers or through in most journals. Of these, the tanka pentaptych, your local bookstore. made up of five tanka in sequence, is probably the best known, but tanka pairs, triptychs, and other lengths are published as well. Occasionally, sequences in the form of circles, crosses, or other shapes are published, but these are rare. All kinds of tanka sequences, including tan renga, are Songs of the Winter Sea by an’ya welcome. Set to Music by Richard St. POETS: Poets are invited to submit up to 40 new or socially published poems. ‘Socially Clair published’ works include poems that have appeared on Twitter or other social media, a Richard St. Clair, poet and composer and personal blog site, or similar location. Poems frequent contributor to Keibooks, has recently set which have appeared in edited websites, journals, 11 of an’ya’s tanka to music for soprano and anthologies, or other curated media are ineligible. piano accompaniment, entitled “Songs of the Poems that have been socially published must be Winter Sea.” The music of each song is lovingly accompanied by a note explaining their previous tailored to fit the varied and striking images of appearance. an’ya’s poems. This music can be heard on YouTube at the following address: Note: ‘40’ refers to the number of tanka or equivalent. In other words, a submission can be maximum total verses being 40. A paragraph of prose counts as a ‘verse’ for purposes of counting. Click on “more” to read and follow along with the words.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 89 Submitting to the anthology certifies that the published, and the right to publish any poem as submitter is the holder of the copyright or the part of the publicity material or promotion for authorized representative of the copyright holder. the anthology. All other rights remain with the In the case of multiple authors, the submitters author. No simultaneous submissions. We require must include a statement that they are the exclusive rights from the time submitted until 90 authorized representative of the collaborators. days after publication, after which you are free to That representative will be responsible for submit elsewhere. If your poem appears in print communicating with their writing partners about in our anthology for the first time and is all relevant matters. subsequently reprinted elsewhere, we request an acknowledgment for subsequent publications. BIOGRAPHY: Include a short biography written in the third person as well as the country MANUSCRIPTS: Email submissions only. of the sequence, or your home country, Please use a large, plain font. No unsolicited whichever is relevant. Submissions that lack attachments. If your submission requires a non- biographies may be rejected. Latin alphabet, please send the English translation and let us know what other FORM: We are seeking tanka, waka, kyoka, language(s) are available. All submissions must be gogyoshi/gogyohka, and related forms. Generally sent as plain text in the body of the email. If the speaking, each tanka in a sequence must be able item requires special formatting, please include to stand on its own, and is our preferred form, an explanation. If we are interested, we will but we will consider sequences that use tanka as a request an attachment and give directions for stanza within a longer poem. how we would like to receive it.

STYLE: We are open to all creative styles No snail mail submissions are accepted. All that make effective use of the tanka form and submissions, including email, must include legal present material that engages the human heart. name, pen name (if any), postal address, We especially value contributions from poets that telephone number, email address, and alternative show freshness and creativity, but we welcome email address (if you have one). Please set your poets that have mastered classical forms as well. spam filters/permission levels to allow our Strong language and topics are acceptable, but response. If we cannot contact you, your poems works that are hateful, pornographic, or just will be rejected. plain vile will not be published. DEADLINE May 31, 2018 TRANSLATION: All poems must be submitted in English, but we will consider poems PUBLICATION: Summer, 2018 written in other languages if an English translation is provided. Correspondence for the RESPONSE TIME: Rejections will anthology will be in English. All translators must generally be within 4-8 weeks. Acceptances may be identified and the poet certifies that they have take longer. the translator’s permission to publish if selected. Translators will receive a byline. We STRONGLY recommend joining Keibooks-Announce at: GoogleGroups.com to PAYMENT: We regret that the only payment receive updates about the project. You can also for inclusion in this anthology is publication. check the blog on our website.

RIGHTS: We require one-time world rights, including print, ebook, audiobook, or any other means by which the anthology as a whole can be

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 90 25 Rhyming Kyoka: Call for As indicated above, the general Atlas Poetica Submissions guidelines apply; therefore, poets must be age 16 or older. Poems should be contained in the body of an email. Please query before sending The Special Features section of the Atlas attachments. To see the full list of guidelines, as Poetica web ite is seeking submissions for a well as Special Features from the past, go to the collection of ‘25 Rhyming Kyoka’ to be edited by main web page. Michael H. Lester. This collection will be published on the AtlasPoetica.org website. Deadline: The deadline for submitting to 25 Rhyming Kyoka is May 31, 2018. The planned Email address for submissions: mhlester45 publication date is summer 2018. Special (at) gmail (dot) com with the subject line: 25 Features are published on an irregular schedule. Rhyming Kyoka. I look forward to your submissions! Rather than try to explain how kyoka differs from tanka, I refer you to M. Kei’s blog post on Best wishes, June 6, 2006, at: for an illuminating discussion.

Feel free to experiment. I will be looking for well-written kyoka that contain rhymes or slant (almost) rhymes that do not call attention to Cirrus 9 Published themselves, but rather seem natural and unforced. The kyoka may be humorous or serious, light or dark, and may contain any Dear fella and fellow tanka poets, subject matter that meets the general submission anthologists and editors, guidelines, which you should read thoroughly. We are pleased to announce that the 9th Here is a chance to express yourself freely— issue of Cirrus, tankas de nos jours has been posted. to untether yourself from the mannered tanka form Although most of you don’t speak French, we and let your creativity take you to places you may hope you can enjoy the visuals as much as do our have heretofore feared to tread. contributors. Submissions: Poets are invited to send up to http://www.cirrustanka.com/issues/ ten poems each, but only one poem may be 9_Cirrus_printemps_2018.pdf chosen from each poet, in keeping with the theme and format of previous 25 poem Special Wishing you all many happy tomorrows, Features on the Atlas Poetica website. We seek Maxianne original poems; however, we will also consider for the Cirrus team kyoka previously published on personal social media accounts, as long as the poet provides [email protected] publication information. We are not accepting tanka prose, or poetry that has been published in journals, books, or other collaborative websites prior to being submitted to the 25 Rhyming Kyoka Special Feature.

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 91 Educational Use Notice Editorial Biography

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 permission from the publisher, may use Atlas Poetica : A Journal of World Tanka’s online digital editions and print editions as primary or ancillary teaching resources. Copyright law ‘Fair Use’ guidelines and doctrine should be interpreted very liberally with respect to Atlas Poetica precisely on the basis of our explicitly stated intention herein. This statement may be cited as an Our ‘butterfly’ is actually an Atlas moth (Attacus effective permission to use Atlas Poetica as a text or atlas), the largest butterfly / moth in the world. It resource for studies. Proper attribution of any comes from the tropical regions of Asia. Image excerpt to Atlas Poetica is required. This statement from the 1921 Les insectes agricoles d’époque. 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 tanka education.

Atlas Poetica Keibooks P O Box 516 Perryville, MD 21903 AtlasPoetica.org

Atlas Poetica • Issue 32 • Page 92 Publications by Keibooks Tanka Collections by Joy McCall

on the cusp encore, a year of tanka, by Joy McCall New fieldgates, tanka sequences, by Joy McCall on the cusp, a year of tanka, by Joy McCall Side by Side, tanka pairs, Larry Kimmel & Joy rising mist, fieldstones, by Joy McCall McCall hedgerows, tanka pentaptychs, by Joy McCall circling smoke, scattered bones, by Joy McCall

Forthcoming Journals Stacking Stones, short tanka sequences [summer 2018] Atlas Poetica : A Journal of World Tanka

Anthologies Poetry Collections by M. Kei Neon Graffiti : Tanka of Urban Life January, A Tanka Diary Bright Stars, An Organic Tanka Anthology (Vols. 1 – 7) Slow Motion : The Log of a Chesapeake Bay Skipjack Take Five : Best Contemporary Tanka (Vol. 4) tanka and short forms

Fire Pearls (Vols. 1 – 2) : Short Masterpieces of the Heart Heron Sea : Short Poems of the Chesapeake Bay tanka and short forms

Tanka Collections Novels by M. Kei Black Genji and Other Contemporary Tanka, by Matsukaze Pirates of the Narrow Seas 1 : The Sallee Rovers Pirates of the Narrow Seas 2 : Men of Honor October Blues and Other Contemporary Tanka, Pirates of the Narrow Seas 3 : Iron Men by Matsukaze Pirates of the Narrow Seas 4 : Heart of Oak

Warp and Weft, Tanka Threads, by Debbie Strange Man in the Crescent Moon : A Pirates of the Narrow Seas Adventure flowers to the torch : American Tanka Prose, by peter The Sea Leopard : A Pirates of the Narrow Seas fiore Adventure

Tanka Left Behind 1968 : Tanka from the Notebooks of Fire Dragon 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