Atlas Poetica 8

Transcription

Atlas Poetica 8

ATLAS
POETICA
A Journal of Poetry of Place
in Contemporary Tanka
Number 8
Spring, 2011
ATLAS
POETICA
A Journal of Poetry of Place
in Contemporary Tanka
Number 8
Spring, 2011
M. Kei, editor
Alex von Vaupel, technical director
ISSN 1939-6465 Print ISSN 1945-8908 Digital
2011
Keibooks, Perryville, Maryland, USA
KEIBOOKS
P O Box 516
Perryville, Maryland, USA 21903
AtlasPoetica.org
[email protected]
Atlas Poetica
A Journal of Poetry of Place in Contemporary Tanka
Number 8 - Spring 2011
Copyright © 2011 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 at the end of the
journal.
Atlas Poetica : A Journal of Poetry of Place in Contemporary Tanka, a triannual print and
e-journal, is dedicated to publishing and promoting fine poetry of place in modern English
tanka (including variant forms). Atlas Poetica is interested in both traditional and innovative
verse of high quality and in all serious attempts to assimilate the best of the Japanese
waka/tanka/kyoka/gogyoshi genres into a continuously developing English short verse
tradition. In addition to verse, Atlas Poetica publishes articles, essays, reviews, interviews,
letters to the editor, etc., related to tanka poetry of place. Tanka in translation from around
the world are welcome in the journal.
Published by Keibooks
Printed in the United States of America, 2011
Print Edition ISSN 1939-6465
Digital Edition ISSN 1945-8908 [PDF & HTML versions]
AtlasPoetica.org
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Editorial
Tanka Around the World, M. Kei ............7
Tanka in Sets and Sequences
Shawbridge Youth Centre, Angela Leuck ..9
Nobody to Talk to, Zofia Barisas..................10
Midwest II : Day, Terry Ingram ..............1112
high tide, carol pearce-worthington.........13
Dispirit, Genie Nakano..............................13
Anzac Day, Mary Mageau ..........................13
What Luck, A Summer Tanka Quartet,
Jackson Lewis, Carmella Jean Braniger,
Randy Brooks, Joseph Bein ................14
Newcomers, Joyce S. Greene......................19
Running Interference, Jeffrey Harpeng.......20
In the Coffin, Gerry Jacobson ....................21
Quiet and Tea, Mike Montreuil ..................21
Home Revisited : Vietnam 2006, Christina
Nguyen................................................22
Yet Again : A Gogyoshi Sequence,
Chen-ou Liu .......................................25
my sister’s world, Margaret Dornaus ..........26
Oppoji Revisited, Sanford Goldstein..........27
No Matter the Season, David Terelinck &
Amelia Fielden ...................................28
Florida Winter, Kris Lindbeck ..................29
Off La Rambla, Bob Lucky .......................30
Scalpels, Gary Lebel..................................31
The Myth : A Tanka Sequence / 神話：日本短
歌序詩, Chen-ou Liu / 劉鎮歐 ............32
New House, Empty House, Margaret Van
Every...................................................33
American Century, Terry Ingram ................34
Bunks, M. Kei.............................................35
Topical Tanka
Kyoka ........................................................36
Individual Tanka......................................38
Articles
Review: Breast Clouds, by Noriko Tanaka,
reviewed by Patricia Prime..................63
Review: Light on Water, by Amelia Fielden,
reviewed by Patricia Prime..................66
Announcements ......................................71
Biographies..............................................75
Index ........................................................81
Educational Use Notice...........................82
Tanka Around the World
Readers will notice changes as we
begin our fourth year. First, we have
chosen a new font that gives better support
for accented Latin characters and melds
better with African characters. However,
enhanced support for international
contributions also imposes increasing
technical demands, especially since we
learned the hard way that printers around
the world do not implement all elements
in the same fashion. To allow greater prepress time to process technical demands,
the reading windows have been shortened
by two weeks. The new deadlines, along
with the revamped guidelines, are posted
at our website <http://AtlasPoetica.org>
The other change is that we have
expanded our editorial mission to
explicitly include a greater variety of
tanka. In particular, since we were able to
fill an entire issue (ATPO 7) with tanka in
translation, it seems obvious to us that we
need to redouble our commitment to
international tanka. There are very few
forums that publish tanka in languages
other than English or Japanese, and most
are small format journals that cannot
provide space for a lengthy sequence in
two, three, or more languages. Our mission
is for poetry of place whether it be a
geographic or cultural place; international
tanka by virtue of geography and culture
fits neatly within our vision.
Our website continues our Special
Features with ‘Tanka for Children,’ the first
that we know of that provides tanka for
children ages five to twelve, written and
edited by experienced tanka poets. It is
accompanied by a set of notes to assist
educators in making use of the poetry in
lessons. Our Educational Use Policy grants
permission for our materials to be used in
classrooms (while reserving the copyright
to the poet). The playfulness of the
children’s feature adds a new dimension to
tanka that will hopefully inspire others. In
addition, a Tanka Prose Special Feature
edited by Bob Lucky is in progress.
We continue to present non-fiction
items, such as book reviews, articles, and
announcements of interest to the world of
international tanka. Book notes and
announcements up to 200 words are
accepted in any language and do not need
to be accompanied by English translation.
Our next issue will include a focus on
Twitter poets publishing tanka, kyoka, and
gogyoshi, along with some resources for
poets new to Twitter.
~K~
M. Kei
Editor, Atlas Poetica
Jordan. Meandering wadis combine to form
dense, branching networks across the stark, arid
landscape of southeastern Jordan. The Arabic word
"wadi" means a gully or streambed that typically
remains dry except after drenching, seasonal rains.
Cover Image courtesy of Our Earth As Art by
NA S A < h t t p : / / e a r t h a s a r t . g s f c. n a s a . g o v /
index.htm>.
Atlas Poetica • Issue 8 • Page 7
Shawbridge Youth Centre
formerly “The Boy’s Farm and Training School” (est. 1901)
Angela Leuck
“angel” wall clock
with white wings
& halo
my son
in juvenile detention
his math exam
rescheduled
my son calculates
the height
of the prison fence
leaving the city—
bright waving fields
of goldenrod
all the way
to the prison
the young blonde
prison guard
in short shorts
says firearms
are her passion
walls, ceiling, floor
painted white
still the gloom
of my son’s
prison cell
behind barbed wire
my son tells me
he now has
his escape plan
all figured out
pacing behind
the barbed wire enclosure
teenage boys
instead of panthers
and tigers
stepping into
this new role
of prison mom—
I wear sunglasses,
consider cutting my hair
in a locked unit
my son
talks of flying
to South America
when he gets out
my son
now a high school graduate
I ride
the big yellow school bus
home from the prison
~Prévost, Québec, Canada
A t l a s Po e t i c a • I s s u e 8 • Pa g e 9
Nobody to Talk to
Zofia Barisas
the little girl
on her knees
in the convent chapel
“please, little Jesus,
make daddy stop”
Québec, Canada
The golden morning sun dappled the checkered tablecloth through the leaves of the
chestnut tree. The light breeze carried the scent of lilac in bloom. It was so peaceful here
and so far away from home and not far away at all.
My friend, Isabelle, and I were sharing a pot of coffee and a basket of croissants in the
walled-in, deserted garden of a café in Copenhagen.
Unexpectedly she said:
“When I was five my father used to force me to take him in my mouth. ‘Do you know
how much I love you? This is going to be our special secret.’ That’s what he used to say. I’ve
never told anybody. Do you remember Soeur Marguerite telling us that it’s a sin to have
impure thoughts, that when we have them it makes little Jesus sad? I didn’t know what
impure thoughts were. There was nobody to talk to. Do you remember the lilacs in the
convent garden? The lilacs here reminded me of those days."
“Yes, I love the smell of lilacs. He grew beautiful roses and used to pat me on the
bottom. He had a great smile. He would tell me, ‘Call me Big Bird.’ I didn’t know what he
meant. Fifteen years ago already. Who could have believed that your daddy would do such
a thing? How awful it must have been for you."
“I loved him,” she said.
~Copenhagen, Denmark
A t l a s P o e t i c a • I s s u e 8 • P a g e 10
Midwest II
Day
Terry Ingram
water shaped
low interior
glacier scoured
Mississippi basin
American Bottom
Cave in Rock
housed Samuel Mason’s pirates
who preyed on
downstream Ohio flatboats
later a Disney film set
adrift
on the floor
of our air ocean
under a green
shimmering canopy
Metropolis
never home to superman
Fort Massac
safeguarded the Ohio
yet The Planet prints news
Illinois
flat Prairie State
in the north
Vandalia to Cairo—south
it’s called Little Egypt
Olney
has albino squirrels
Mt. Vernon
Little Egypt’s King City
sports a mere ornate courthouse
~Midwest, United States
Shawneetown
declined to loan
Chicago
the money to get started
and then faded away
my cajun mother
born in Elizabethtown
on the Ohio
Etown to locals
a place Twain could have called home
high tide
carol pearce-worthington
Sand on my legs and sticking to my
hands, my sunglasses fog over from the
ocean wind. A man in orange combs his
hair as he leaves the surf saying It’s rough
today. Hit by a breaker, my husband falls,
tries to rise; another hits, then another.
Finally on his feet he staggers from the
water and jogs slowly down the beach into
the haze. I cannot distinguish him from
others far away. Four o’clock arrives and
the gulls begin to pace easily over the
sand. Umbrellas flatten. Women gather up
theirs sandals, their bags. The gulls
squawk. Lifeguards bundle in sweatshirts.
Cross as he can be, I long for the sight of
my husband, wanting to tell him look at
my swollen hands, and I have to go to the
bathroom. So quickly yet how slowly he
vanished, a chimera in the ocean wind. His
eyes dimmed by disease and time, perhaps
somewhere down the beach he enters the
surf again to try swimming away from my
sympathetic long remembering gaze.
Perhaps, after he paces, after studying the
ocean like a scientist, he does go in. All
down the beach into the haze there is no
one who resembles him.
from the shade
of our beach umbrella
I watch him
struggle to stand
against the tide
(At the beach you get sand in your
shoes and you crunch when you walk, your
hair blows every which way, and you clamp
your sandy hat over it; your hands air dry
and seagulls drink from the foot shower
and the ocean looks green and growls and
the lifeguards sit on mounds and the wind
and the salt spray create a haze over the
sand.)
perched outside
the lifeguard station
i sketch
a rock a dune
finally ― the ocean
After staring for nearly an hour, I spot
his shuffling run which I never dreamed
would take him so far so fast, and I walk to
the surf, roll up my pant legs to let the
foam swirl over my shoes, soothe my hands
in the cold salt water, and watch him come.
On the train to Manhattan, when I
slide my beach chair into the overhead
rack, a black woman shouts you are getting
sand all over me and changes her seat. My
hands feel gritty with remnants of the
beach: mustard relish salt and sand. At
home I inspect for sunburn. And when I
sleep, the blue green ocean spreads
through a dream and roars around the
lifeguard stand where rap music plays. My
hat flaps and flaps.
~high tide, cont.
Anzac Day
sweeping away
city heat
the ocean wind
tangled
my hair
Mary Mageau
~Jones Beach, Long Island, NY, USA
Dispirit
Genie Nakano
a depression sets in every October. this
is the month my father died and when he
passed a crater greater then the world and
universe beyond scraped the pit of my
stomach.
with the onset of the tenth month—
warm shots of whiskey before bedtime and
meditation in the morning help me make it
through the nights.
somewhere in Seattle maple leaves
glisten in gold and red—but here in my
shell, a deep void settles down.
the sun left
and took the summer
only the rain
and clouds
fall behind
he reads to me
‘your presence is required
at the front line’
the sun disappears
behind grey clouds
one more kiss
then your
final goodbye
under weeping willows
near the open road
tomorrow
an empty square
in my calendar
I’ll colour in a heart
to mark it
a letter arrives
‘we regret to inform . . .
missing in action’
somewhere a bugler
tones the Last Post
gusting winds
strip the leaves
from their branches
shredded and scattered
all are carried away
~25th April, Australia
~Seattle, Washington, USA
What Luck, A Summer Tanka Quartet
Jackson Lewis, Carmella Jean Braniger,
Randy Brooks, Joseph Bein
red petunias
grandmother’s
remedy
for staving off
loneliness
cjb
your text
reaches me
immediately
the miles
so much longer
jb
late night
construction
radio paves
new roads
to get lost on
jl
I zoom in
on the satellite
image
of your back yard
missing you
rb
her sweet song
echoing
back on itself
in the empty chamber
of this U-haul truck
cjb
at a stoplight
I wait
while the moving van
carries away
my childhood
jb
I pull into
dad’s driveway
unaware he is
across town
looking for me
jl
•
~What Luck, cont.
cousins calling
my name
over and over
i wait to hear
alli alli all in free
rb
under a half moon
two girls join hands
on the trampoline
stars appear closer
than they are
cjb
silent
gazing up at stars
I wonder
is your infinity
larger than mine?
jb
man in the moon
looks worriedly
at the woman
once called
beautiful
a moon rock
under fluorescent lights
a young woman
fogs up museum glass
for a closer look
rb
peering through a microscope
at a speck of moon dust
my universe
so very
small
jb
summer solstice
i mistake the sun
standing still
for a harvest moon
rising among pines
cb
••
clearing my head
after the storm
your loving voice
echoes the warning
I never spoke
rb
jl
~What Luck, cont.
closing
the vinyl top
he reminds me
keep enemies
even closer
cjb
gravel road
spits debris behind
reminding me
of what I said
last valentine’s day
jb
it grinds against
my scuffed skull
this aching
reminder I’m just
a child
jl
looking for
the boy in me
I swing out
over creek water
on a groaning rope
rb
behind the shed
she whispers
in his ear
a secret
about the future
cb
rope ladder
of our old tree house
worn and frayed
seems almost ready
to snap
jb
•••
watching pellets
of rain, i want
to be on the news
and tell everyone
stop watching
jl
starting to run
then accepting
the cool wetness
of rain drops
darkening the beach
rb
~What Luck, cont.
the desert
gave agave
knowing
already
my desire
jar of iced
cucumber water
quenches our thirst
lifts the weight
of summer
cjb
cb
••••
drops of rain
like pilgrim footfalls
join my trek
across
this holy desert
turning on
the backyard sprinkler
I bring some rain
to brighten
this sunny blue day
jb
jb
tip-toeing
across pavement
in summer’s heat
a silent wish
for shoes
sparkling droplets
fall from a sky
bereft of clouds
like a dream
almost realized
jl
jl
barefoot under
the market umbrella
she picks up
a cucumber
to prove her point
rainbow
color streams
moving off
into the stars
anything is possible
rb
cb
~What Luck, cont.
searching
for a pot of gold
I stub my toe
on a rainbow
what luck
jb
crying under
a rainbow
i’m told how he
fell out of love
with mother
jl
sleeping
in a field of poppies
I dream
of wicked witches
and clockwork hearts
jb
his heart beats
like clockwork
for the girl
who doesn’t fit
in his arms
jl
hippie clothes
in the dress-up
closet
my daughter
lets the sunshine in
alarm goes off
late again
I’m going to miss
my second chance
date
rb
rb
in a dream
red sunflowers
line the fields
her paintbrush
replicating them
always in a rush
breathe deep
i remind her
there are no
second chances
cb
cb
•••••
~What Luck, cont.
white rabbit
darts before me
cutting off
my haste
I’m late, I’m late
jb
arriving in time
to see her walk
away
I reach out
with a sigh
Newcomers
Joyce S. Greene
in the hotel lobby
a cowboy chews tobacco
an Indian woman
sits beside him stringing beads
my son asks me if they’re real
a red sun burns
in the desert sky
I thirst
for gently falling rain
green grass and yellow mums
jl
end of summer
my small town family
grows smaller
in the rear-view
mirror
rb
newcomers
to a desert state
we plant flowers
while watching tumbleweeds
roll across our pebbled yard
shimmering
watermelon mountains
in the August sun
I follow a river of trees
streaming through desert sand
~New Mexico, USA
Running Interference
Jeffrey Harpeng
This tanka
is a crow
argument
in a die back
tree.
has no home, no face, no name. Call it . . .
how a soul travels between incarnations?
for argument’s sake, and I told her listen
the next word just hovers. Let’s talk of mind
each twisted into a story the wind has told
This tanka
in Lake Victoria
a Nile Perch,
a hundred kilos more
of what is gone.
has no passport, no visa, and no ticket
and somewhere around there the heart
is not a gun, it takes more lives
and semtex only explodes once
there is always a tooth to tear to grind
This tanka
a plastic bag
a national flower
for all
the tumbleweed future.
walks with Jurrasic oracle bones
see oleanane in oil, in angiosperms
Darwin’s abominable mystery
blooms here at the great extinction
we remember what is secret, what is sacred
This tanka
is four billion years old
and can’t remember
what it is
it can’t remember.
has learnt the physics of forgiveness
take a deep breath count to infinity
how the future that is ever with us
is red in tooth and claw, in abattoir
is what I was going to say next
In the Coffin
Quiet and Tea
Gerry Jacobson
Mike Montreuil
grey day
up there on a hill . . .
so much sadness
down there in the world . . .
mother-in-law declining
a wall of noise appears
once the theme park tickets
are stamped
where are the benches
for already tired parents?
before the coffin
I stand in awe
of Who
created this person
created this life
as far as forever
one can see
idling roller coaster cars
the launch countdown
not yet at zero
in the coffin
tensions unwind
pain eases
problems dissolve
judgement stops . . . silence widens
flying cups
spinning saucers
children scream on rides
while parents search
for quiet and tea
a pink rose
is all that we leave
closing up
that dark house . . .
walking out into sunlight
safety
is not in numbers
it’s on the ground
sharing fries
with a seagull
empty chairs
on the porch—no one
sits there now
although the sun
still shines on Tweed River
night time
almighty harbinger
of secrets—
much is revealed
from the Ferris wheel
~Tweed Heads, NSW, Australia
~Wonderland Theme Park, Toronto, Canada
Home Revisited : Vietnam 2006
Christina Nguyen
caught the redeye
from Bangkok
so I could catch
pinkeye
in Hanoi
before dawn
we drift to Hoan Kiem Lake
never too early
for communist slogans
and tai chi
~Hanoi
~Hanoi
at last
rice fields and water buffalo
the heat
hits my heart
and I am home
rice paper wrappers
drying on long reed mats
the wind
pulls out music
in cracks and pops
~outside Hanoi’s Noi Bai airport
~Tho Ha village
the dog butcher
turns in shame
as the tourist
revisits
his native Vietnam
dragon boats
bump and growl in the bay
everyone
holds their breath
before the typhoon
water puppets
spin and dance
but jet lag
pulls me
under
out at sea
tourist ladies
dive deep
looking for pearls
in the jewelry box
~Home Revisited, cont.
Tet Trung Thu
dragon dancers entertain
at every hotel
with one sly hand
in the guests’ food
deep in the caves
of Halong Bay
our guide
chatting away
on his cell phone
~Hoi An
our guide
teaching me poetry
and idioms
all the words
I’ll never remember
~Halong Bay
in Hue
even I am a Buddhist—
imperfectly perfect
I read a poem
for the nuns
two days
in Nha Trang
we rush to touch
every place
from your parents’ life
~Hue
Da Nang
after the typhoon
once again
the people and land
war-torn
born
by the blue of Nha Trang
now grown
he’s forgotten
how to swim
~Da Nang
~Nha Trang
the oldest tree
uprooted in Hoi An market
on the curb
an old man still works
at his sewing machine
breakfast
at the roadside cafe
everyone stares
at the white girl
eating pho
~just outside of Nha Trang
afternoon snack
we duck out of the mountain rain
I tell everyone,
“I don’t know how
to eat it”
reading
at the family altar
heat overcomes
and the ancestors’ voices
carry me to sleep
fishing boats
one eye to the sea
one eye to shore
the plum ao dai
on the tall blonde
old graves
in the rice field
the past
watching over
the future
~Nha Trang
green
the mountains’ warm embrace
we greet
the ancestors
we never knew
mango tree
picking fruit for the grave
burning incense
and paper money
for the lost brother
~Bien Hoa
in My Trach village
the old man asks,
“do you know Nguyen Tan Doc?”
you tell him, “yes . . .
I am his son”
we haggle
at Ben Thanh market for 30 minutes
auntie scolds uncle
for saving us only $5
on silk shirts
every year
we send money to this school
no running water
just rusted toys
and bare feet
once Grandma’s house
in old Saigon
today
a coffee shop
boasting high-speed Internet
Yet Again : A Gogyoshi
Sequence
in Hanoi
I learned how
to cross the street
in Saigon
it served me well
Chen-ou Liu
moonlight
creeps in the door ajar
her heart
has been closed since
azaleas blanketed the mountain
~Ho Chi Minh City
peasants
thresh rice by hand—
giant power lines
carry their energy
beyond the substation
~just outside Ho Chi Minh City
the name
is Ho Chi Minh City
but
even the airport knows
it’s still SGN
~Ho Chi Minh City
misty morning
I open The Art of Loving
her letter
falls out
Dear John . . .
that starlit night
full of her promises . . .
a column of smoke
burning returned letters
I open our album
raining outside
I sit at a window
drinking coffee—
the youthful self walks into
the summer of 1967
~Ajax, Ontario, Canada
my sister’s world
Margaret Dornaus
the winter garden
where false hellebore appears
without fair warning
my sister’s mind a landscape
scored with fault lines . . . and furrows
I remember once
she took us all to drive-ins
that convertible
when stars blossomed in her hair
the technicolor profile
her right knee socket
dislocated by the twist—
always a wrong turn
the path we’re meant to follow
different from the path preferred
oh . . . the bikinis
she wore: one trimmed with ruffles;
punctuating her—
curves against the water’s waves
the heartbreak of blue herons
the scavenger hunt . . .
I forgot—she squirreled the clues
into the hollow
of hinged walnuts painted gold
small castanets of fortune
on the telephone
I hear the hesitation
in her voice, broken
syllables in the refrain
a whippoorwill’s sonata
what will happen then
when I can’t see myself here?
she asks the mirror . . .
I tell her nothing, knowing
that there are no simple words
on a clearer day
she speaks of time traveling
through the birth canal
I can be funny, she says,
while propagating laughter
later, when I sort
through books I find a clipping
about hellebores
a colorful addition
I read to early winter
a perennial—
a hardy woodland flower
a striking beauty
called buttercup or crowfoot
genus of that family
I take it for another
sign: this distant pressing urge
long since forgotten
to plant something so fragile
flower, butterfly or bird . . .
~Arkansas
Oppoji Revisited
Sanford Goldstein
visiting
once again Oppoji Temple
this autumn day—
easier it was five years ago
to climb these thick stone steps
from
the stone dragon’s mouth
cold running water,
the tin cup with its wooden handle
filled with waters of purity
again
the elderly with canes
or caved-in backs,
they climb the steep stone steps
to bring relief from pain
dizzy still
from the long climb to the temple
above heavy stone steps,
I notice the four-tiered pagoda,
its long age standing serene
for fifty yen
my friend lights a bundle
of incense sticks,
their smoke and smell
offering good health
we stand
where the incense smoke
rushes out,
I feel just this ceremony
is cause for sudden joy
ring twice,
the printed Japanese sign
tells us,
I pull the heavy cord forward
and manage only a slight sound
how easy
Buddhism seems to
this foreign me,
ceremonies again and again
and still no real demands
we stop as we once did
at this famous tea shop over
one hundred years old,
again the splendid taste of manjū,
the hot white covering the brown center
we buy ten
for thirteen hundred
yen,
and as I did five years ago
a package of brown tea treats
headed home
we stop to view once more
the Sea of Japan,
rough the waves against barriers
this September afternoon
~Oppoji Temple, Tainai, Niigata Prefecture
(*a yen is now 82 to the dollar)
No Matter the Season
David Terelinck & Amelia Fielden
noticing
an absence of red
in these autumn leaves—
when was the last time
I told you I loved you?
in the slip
of your yukata, a glimpse
of silken thigh . . .
a white camellia
brilliant in the moonlight
‘I just called
to say I love you,’
playing our song
over and over
remembering when . . .
mosaic petals
of fallen sasanqua
still fragrant . . .
how complicated are
the hearts of others
two young lovers
exchange their vows upon
Shinkyo bridge . . .
no matter the season
flowing waters never return
the freshness
of the maiko’s face—
how I long
for those warm spring days
and your lipstick kisses
by the canal
in a blizzard of blossoms
a man waits
nonchalantly
like an old lover
unfolding
your letter, I touch
your fingers . . .
spring has come again
with all its young promises *
strolling along
the Philosopher’s Path
green leaves mingle
with the gold . . . how will I know
when it’s time to let go
a white crane
stands in its reflection
despite ripples
the surety
of your hand in mine
these days
I’m always ahead of you
but looking back
for reassurance—
and when you are gone ?
so trustingly
the willow’s trunk leans out
over the pond
propped by a stout pole—
my love has slipped away
~No Matter the Season, cont.
Florida Winter
Kris Lindbeck
the faint strains
of a shakuhachi
at dusk
we see and hear
only what we want
Two hours ago, at noon, the shallow
water was lucid bottle green deepening
further out to a sparkling indigo. As the
sun falls lower they darken, but that’s
partly the sea spray on my eyeglasses.
Windblown sand rises from the beach like
a low mist. An osprey flaps into the wind
then hovers, tacking to stay over the surf,
until she gives up and lets the wind take
her inland.
Without my glasses, I see a Van Gogh
ocean, the wave crests shockingly white,
snow torn from the sea rising again and
again from the dark water.
sounds of the sea
sighing and shifting—
your words to me
so inappropriate,
how should I process them
summer storm,
a paper parasol
spinning past—
unable to tether
these reckless emotions
Warm sun cool wind
I stay as the beach empties
calling the waves
to wash all the worthless
words from my mind
new French-blue shirt . . .
under a snowy sky
in Paris
was the last time I
risked everything for love *
~Florida, USA
‘take a chance on me’
a sudden blast of ABBA
on the Ginza
love and pachinko
are both a gamble
~Japan
(* both of these tanka were previously
published in Baubles,Bangles & Beads, 2007)
Off La Rambla
Bob Lucky
No hi ha cap ciutat lletja,
cap home ni cap dona
tan miserables que no puguem ser
tu i jo en aquesta història d’amor.
~Joan Margarit
in Barcelona
reading Bolaño’s poetry
I wonder
if the statue of Columbus
is pointing the wrong way
the crowd three deep
behind barstools at El Quim
when we find two spots
we stare at the menu board
lost in language and hunger
tense, quiet morning
after coffee and croissants
we walk for miles—
finally I have to point out
the hotel’s the other way
my old friend
stands in the kitchen and toasts
the new year
goodbye grilled tiger prawns
hello rabbit paella
~Barcelona, Spain
live musicians
keep the crowds moving
in Parc Grüell
the tiled lizard frozen
in a million photos
the parade
passes Plaça de Catalunya—
night of the three kings
Spain’s new antismoking law
turns sidewalks into lounges
Scalpels
Gary Lebel
After her surgery
the quiet I crave
I learn to hate
almost as soon
as an empty house.
1. Quietude
How marvelous! How fortunate we are to
simply enter a room and, with the flick of a
switch, flood it instantaneously with
lamplight,
enough to read the small print on
contracts at any hour, or even The Tempest
in the curly fonts of the playwright’s
century,
enough to appraise a daughter’s eyes as
she sneaks noiselessly up the stairs to her
room at three AM—
in Emily Dickinson’s time, an oil lamp was
all that could hold the dark at bay, though
the mysterious, tangibly intangible would
still have crouched at the edge of the light
as intention hides behind an act:
we chase it away with LEDs, with glowing
clocks and nightlights, with floodlights,
lampposts and TVs left blabbering in
bedrooms
all to fool us into believing
that we’re not alone.
2. High C
The janitor starts her vacuum.
Drawn into its hum, she breaks
immediately into song, wrapping an old
canción around its drone like rope around
a windlass, and all the waiting room is
lifted by her bittersweet audacity
and somehow you know without knowing
that she once poured this same sweet
cadence into an infant’s ears
just as her mother had
into hers.
In an ocean of tubes
and linen, she sleeps on
through the afternoon,
her body mourning
what scalpels took.
The Myth : A Tanka
Sequence
Chen-ou Liu
神話：日本短歌序詩
劉鎮歐
在冬夜
的至深之處
I gaze
into the bedroom mirror
in the depth
of a winter night
nothing there, and yet . . .
我凝視
卧房的鏡子
空無一物，然而 . . .
死亡
Death
with half-opened eyes
glances at me—
I ponder if
poetry can redeem my life
半睜開的雙眼
在瞄我—
我懷疑
詩能否拯救我的生命
my pondering
turns into the winter light
filling the sky . . .
snowflakes of words
fall and pile up on the page
我的猜想
化為冬日之光
填滿了天空 . . .
詩句像雪花般
飄落並堆積在紙上
page after page
my poems morph into crumbled balls
lying
pale by a garbage bin
to write or not to write . . .
it’s been said
nothing new under the sun—
I wage
one fight after another
against a poet’s loneliness
~Ajax, Canada
一頁接一頁
我的詩句化為紙團
蒼白地
在字紙簍邊
繼續寫或不寫 . . .
曾有傳言
太陽底下無新鮮事—
我從事
一場接一場的戰役
對抗作為詩人的寂寞
New House, Empty House
Margaret Van Every
this empty house
echoes in my voice
something
nearly decipherable
before the moving van arrives
cardboard boxes
containing all we were
in that prior life—
we ask ourselves
why open them
languishing in its case
my violin
lays on me a guilt trip
without making
a sound
my old man
dead twenty years—
how did his flannel shirt
end up
in my Mexican closet?
I’ve trimmed my nails,
first step in coming back
to my neglected instrument
waiting like a spurned lover.
Soon my heart will follow.
~Permanent move from Florida to Jalisco
in Spring 2010.
I draw the bow
over reticent strings
they start to loosen up
house, violin, and I are one
neighbor turns up his TV
American Century
Terry Ingram
yes, the big WAR
but the forties begat
bird and bebop
the beats and film noir
flip side of the shoah
after disco’s demise
the Berlin Wall dismantled
with the AIDS virus rampant
Wall Street, linked with the pc
now undistracted, ran wild
drab tract dwellers
were braced by wan smiles, highballs
and Mad Ave ads
still senator Joe’s witch hunts
plus H bomb dread stalked Ike’s years
casting the net
the communications grid
hauled in the globe
with the cell phone and web
Dolly the beast is spawned
~United States, 1940–2000
a new tomorrow
hippies, Diggers and Fugs
free love and freed men
writhed in a tangled embrace
in response we kissed the moon
Voyager drone
bearing mans dreams to the stars
turned to look back
at the diminished blue mote
corrected course and sped on
Bunks
M. Kei
unexpected, but welcome—
following in
his father’s footsteps
he signs onto
the tall ship’s crew
wishing
the chatty crewmembers
would put away
their beer
and go to sleep
Berth 8
climbing into my bunk
for the first time
getting acquainted with
all the things that will hurt
lights out at last
the new crew beds down
aboard the tall ship
new crew:
father and son
in adjacent bunks
deep January
with frost in the rigging
down below
socks and an extra shirt
when turning in tonight
warm and snug
in a bunk
a little too short
first night
aboard the new ship
night watch:
bilge pumps, generators,
snoring bunks . . .
if only the sea were as quiet
as its reputation
the ship’s cat
disdains me and chooses
my son’s bunk instead
~Kalmar Nyckel, Christina River,
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
Kyoka
Robert Rotella
Alexis Rotella
The ham bone
I saved
from the potluck lunch
swiped overnight
from the office fridge.
Fishing off a New Jersey bridge
the little girl
pulls up a large eel
horrified but relieved
it wasn’t a python.
~Washington, DC
~New Jersey, USA
Tea ceremony—
trying to admire the glaze
in the cup
while my car
is being towed.
Jim Bainbridge
roadside kill
vulture, beetles, flies
the great undertaker
knows how
to handle the dead
~Japantown, San Francisco, USA
~Los Angeles, California, USA
Bruce England
Patricia Prime
playing
Chinese Checkers
I let grandpa win
although he doesn’t know it
and thinks he’s brainier than me
A first child is born
seriously ugly;
the husband suspects
adultery; the wife admits
to plastic surgery
He divorces her
~China
~Te Atatu South, Auckland, New Zealand
Margaret Van Every
Margarita Engle
In Elderado
homeowners walk their dogs
only at night.
Neighbors remain in the dark
about whose grass gets watered.
ZEBRA
between
BOLD
STRIPES
timid shadows
~Ajijic, Jalisco, México
~Airport Art Gallery, USA
M. Kei
Carol Raisfeld
after the pub
one less crewman—
he finds a berth
with a young lady
dazzled by tall ships
reading
my own tea leaves
I gasp . . .
will the hair salon arrange
for an early appointment?
~Wlmington, Delaware, USA
~Chinatown, New York, USA
Peggy Heinrich
Paul Smith
Keep Santa Cruz Weird
a bumper sticker screams—
thoughts quickly shift
from concern about my move
to plans to pack my dowsing tools
in his room
my son is playing The Who
way too loud . . .
apparently no longer
‘My Generation’
~Worcester, England
~Santa Cruz, California, USA
Alexis Rotella
He goes home
crabby
and alone
florist
on Valentine’s Day.
It reminds me
of the sorcerer
from a famous ballet—
the eel who hides behind
a rock.
~Saratoga, California, USA
~Monterey Aquarium, Monterey, California
Grandpa’s passport—
his distinguishing characteristic
a blue mark
on his forehead . . .
was that why he died so young?
Neighborhood chitchat—
both of us pretending
that I don’t mind
if his dog craps
all over my lawn.
~Arnold, Maryland, USA
This morning
a minnows and worms sign
on the back of a truck—
and all day in my ear
peace and love to minnows and worms.
~Ellis Island, N.Y.
Before entering
the cemetery
I surround myself
in a ball of golden light
(just in case).
~Annapolis, Maryland, USA
~Central City, Pennsylvania, USA
Life is a gas
my 90-year-old friend tells me
as she hangs onto her
pony-tailed 70-year old lover
who lives in a van.
Before entering
the cemetery
I surround myself
in a ball of golden light
(just in case).
~Central City, Pennsylvania, USA
~Berkeley, California, USA
Bruce England
Guy Simser
German shepherd
with distemper, wags his tail,
tries to walk to us
one small hole in his forehead
dragged to dumpster
while tokyo bound
recalling high school days
my nisei chum
who couldn’t bear telling me
what I didn’t know
~Santa Cruz Mountains, California, USA
~Japan
Running back to third
the pitcher threw the ball hard,
straight at my head;
turning, I saw it coming
in slow motion; tumbling
at the last moment
the ball flew into the weeds;
I walked home
looking back at the pitcher
seeing slow-turning stitches
tito’s zagreb—
how to eject this street waif
fighting her way
into our opened car
with foreign plates
~Sunnyvale, California, USA
~Yugoslavia
old panzergrenadier
hosting our lunch
just small talk
pulls his collar down—
kanadischer! slug scar
in the swartzforest
my first schutzenfest
rationalizing
comic book icons
of my WW2 youth
~Germany
Claire Everett
finding no grace
in words,
I envy the swallows
sweeping away
into twilight blue
we took our mourning
home with us
and left the crows
to write your epitaph
in the snow
~County Durham, England
~Shropshire, England
lakeside—
a future more fragile me
watches flocks of unwritten poems
unfold white wings
and fly away
~Derwent Water, Cumbria, England
~Hamsterley Forest, County Durham, England
~Hag Strand Bay, Cumbria, England
still wearing
the afterglow
of dawn,
the tangled limbs
of distant hills
on a seat of moss
a poem
rests easy
while the forest
sings
early
the dust sheet slips
from a cold marble sky—
she is carving
in blue
where Ing’s Wood sips
the water, a roe deer laps
at her reflection
and the sun
lays down her bow
here
there is only now—
the timeless tick
of time
kept by mountains
~Castlerigg, Cumbria, England
~cont. Everett
lost for words
before these ancient stones,
I wonder how I might
learn to say everything
by saying nothing
after our walk,
with such tenderness,
you brushed
the clouds
out of my hair
~Castlerigg Stone Circle, Cumbria, England
~Castle Crag, Cumbria, England
holding
the roe buck’s gaze
until he bounds
into the thicket
of someone else’s dream
no greater peace
than the deep green
silence of the trees
when the breeze
has moved on
~Dalby Forest, North Yorkshire, England
~Whinlatter Forest, Cumbria, England
the sun
throws a saddle
on the mountain’s back—
by night the wind
will ride
Helen Buckingham
~Blencathra, Cumbria, England
infant school
a smell of burnt leaves
from last night’s bonfires . . .
the news from Aberfan
stinging our eyes
the heron
startled
wears the grey tinge
of my regret
in its departing grace
~Hamsterley Forest, County Durham, England
~Aberfan, South Wales, 21st Oct.1966, coal tip
fell on school killing 144, including 116
children.
Sean Greenlaw
Mothers’ Day
struggling to remember
her face
before cancer
the moon comes out
Smoking the pack
of left-behind cigarettes
that are not my brand
I breathe him in
a few more times
~New Hampshire, USA
spring
now that the leaves
have all come back
I can’t remember
why I missed them
last night
the flowers I picked
for you
shed their petals
on our night stand
~Connecticut, USA
he laughs
the sound leaping past
the twenty years
between us
on this motel bed
I settle on reruns
of some 50’s sitcom
bitter
after he goes back
to his family
Rodney Williams
that whiff of brine
off the river-mouth . . .
from youth
my best of friends
now a stranger
~Anderson’s Inlet, Tarwin Lower, Victoria,
Australia
jack kerouac lane
behind city lights books—
a brother hauls
his home in plastic
pressed by three squad cars
~San Francisco, California, USA
Susan Constable
watching the moon
wax, wane, wax full again
I wait for you
to choose between loving her
and coming home to me
snake-startled
I’m taken back to Ghana
in a flash
a ten-foot cobra
races across our porch
~Ghana, West Africa
~New Westminster, BC, Canada
the skin of a snake
shimmers with rainbows
even after death—
will the poems I leave behind
ever be as beautiful?
under clear skies
we dig fence post holes
one by one
when we least expect them
worms come to the surface
mid-argument
a fly catches my attention
in the sunlight
the window smudge always
on your side of the glass
washed up
on a lonely beach
a jellyfish
at the end of life
where will my body lie?
summer moon . . .
her eyes reveal you’ve won
her heart
the minute you kiss
her kitten’s paw
all her life
my mother dressed just so—
in long-term care
she adjusts the rising hem
on a stranger beside her
~Vancouver, BC, Canada
Liam Wilkinson
ghost-white noon
on Freshwater Bay
looking
for Tennyson
in the bookshop
potted meat sarnies
and crisps
on the prom
a sea fret
steals my bicycle
~Fleetwood, England
~Freshwater, Isle of Wight
another dawn turns
the bay blue-grey
without so much
as a breath
I make myself jump
swirling moon
in a crown glass window
I ask the barman
to distort
the rest of the night
~Scarborough, England
~Dawlish, England
left on his desk
the museum piece
of Larkin’s glasses
how grumpy he’d have been
straining to see them there
~Hull, England
rope winds wrap
around the Minster
tonight would be
the night
we sail out
~Beverley, England
Jade Pandora
big as sky—
makin’ tracks
across the Panhandle,
a jackrabbit
races me home
~North Texas, USA
Carol Raisfeld
coffee brews
sirens wail, the baby screams
early Sunday—
is this the perfect life
I always dreamed of?
at the mirror
my mother always used
I comb my hair
wondering if she ever sat here
and thought about me
~Los Angeles, California, USA
~Santa Monica, California, USA
watching
through half-closed eyes
your breasts
in the shadows . . .
turning, I taste the night
today
we scattered his ashes
into the sea . . .
he loved this ocean
as wide as the sky
~Cherry Cove, Catalina, California, USA
~Long Beach, New York, USA
at mother’s house
I wrestle with memories
in the quiet . . .
these walls that held her life
suddenly cold
old streets
winding around so many
childhood memories . . .
now after all these years
all I really need is you
~Levittown, New York, USA
~Levittown, New York, USA
small talk
shared in sauna heat
breasts gleaming . . .
how lonely it is listening
to sounds from next door
~Greenwich Village Spa, New York, USA
Rosemerry Wahtola
Trommer
Martha Alcántar, translator
So much blank sky . . .
each morning
I begin again
to fill it
with poems.
Tanto cielo en blanco . . .
cada mañana
comienzo otra vez
a llenarlo
de poemas.
Margaret Van Every
In Mexico,
where descompuesto is normal
and every house
has something needing fixing
there is no word for repairman.
Hobbling through this pueblo
on calles empedradas*
feet torqued with pain
I marvel how every stone
was put there by human hand.
~Ajijic, Jalisco, México
~Telluride, Colorado
(* stone streets The streets of the many villages
around Lake Chapala are made of found stones
placed without mortar in the mud. Miles and miles
of streets are thus laid by men on hands and knees,
who embed the stones one by one. Pedestrians find
the streets painful to walk on and cars get a bumpy
ride. Not to be confused with cobblestones
(adoquines), the term reserved for manufactured
pavers with an even surface.)
David Caruso
in the hours
after sunset
even the oranges
of the orange tree
turn black
a man
i can’t make out
in the dark—
he carries all
of his things with him
~Federico Garcia Lorca’s Granada, Spain
~Wallace Street, the Fairmount section of
Philadelphia, USA
the old man’s chalice
“bourbon tastes better
this way boys”
against the cold silver
of slavery
~the top shelf of a dry bar down south, USA
the chicago-english
spoken at daley plaza
with pablo picasso
fifty feet
in the air
Paul Smith
~at the Pablo Picasso sculpture, Daley Square,
Chicago, USA
over my door
hangs the horseshoe
of a horse
who’s done a whole lot
of walking
his tiny hand
in mine
my son asks
what I’d like to be
when I grow up
~Worcester, England
~my friend’s house, Haddonfield, New Jersey,
USA
Amelia Fielden
bluer than blue
in the sparkling afternoon
Lake Washington
like endless lengths of brocade
unrolled from the floating bridge
at the marina
dashing, flashing
like turquoise needles
dragonflies
transparent wings whirring
over dark still waters
light dazzles
reflected from the pool
onto the ceiling
of a long verandah—
orange koi swim, head down
~Canberra, Australia,
“in France
I never dream, for France
is the dream,”
she tells me, gazing beyond
our sapphire ocean
~Sidney, Australia
~Seattle, Washington, USA
bright blue day
the child flying her kite
at high tide
sea filling sandcastle moats
then a squabble of seagulls
~Cannon Beach, Oregon, USA
spring pond:
black swan pair paddling
with five cygnets
against a backdrop
of crab apple blossom
Jacob Kobina Ayiah
Mensah
Dear, you are right saying, Where did the
year go?
I did not see November and December
and January is flying like a mad wind.
Maybe I am sail climbing
a mound of an inch
~Ghana
Micheline Beaudry
Mike Montreuil, translator
sur la photo
tu étais au bord de la mer
à regarder un coquillage
tes cheveux encore noirs
échappaient aux saisons
pleine lune
au cœur de la nuit
de novembre
ta paupière couvre
le sombre de ton regard
~Montérégie, Québec, Canada
full moon
in the middle of
a November night
your eyelids hide
the darkness of your glance
~Mer Adriatique
in the photo
you were by the sea
looking at a seashell
your hair still black
escaped the seasons
dans ton camion
nous avons parlé douze heures
durant
l’été s’étageait
du fleuve à la montagne
~Adriatic Sea
~Montréal, Québec, Canada
dans une rue de taxis
leurs lumières soudaines
nous jetèrent au bord de la nuit
tu m’as étreinte très fort
nous reverrons-nous?
~Paris, France
~Montréal, Québec, Canada
in a street of taxis
their sudden light
threw us to the edge of night
you held me close to you
will we meet again?
~Paris, France
in your truck
we talked for a whole
twelve hours
summer unfolded
from the river to the mountain.
le vent arrache
les dernières feuilles desséchées
aux arbres altiers
quand la maladie t’emportera
aurons-nous une cérémonie d’adieu?
James Tipton
~cont. Beaudry
the wind tears
the last desiccated leaves
from lofty trees
when disease takes you
will we have a good-bye ceremony?
dans les vagues
l’image mouvante
du vieux peuplier
nos amours compliqués
au gré des vents contraires
Martha Alcántar, translator
In his green jump suit
pushing his cart
through the middle
of the funeral procession . . .
the ice cream man.
En su overol verde
empujando su carrito
en medio
de la marcha fúnebre . . .
el vendedor de nieves.
~Fleuve St-Laurent, Canada
on the waves
the old poplar’s
moving image
our complicated loves
at the mercy of the headwinds
~St-Lawrence River, Canada
Micheline Beaudry habite sur la Rive-Sud
de Montréal. Elle a publié l’essai Les maisons
des femmes battues au Québec aux éditions
Saint-Martin, 1984, en anglais Battered
Women, Black Rose Books, 1985. Elle a publié
aux Éditions David, les ouvrages Blanche
Mémoire, recueil de renku avec Jean Dorval,
2002 et Les couleurs du vent, 2004. Elle a
participé à des anthologies internationales de
haïkus ainsi qu’à la fondation du journal
Gong et de l’Association française du haïku.
~Chapala, México
I thought that woman
would make the perfect wife—
little did I know then
the dark sea
I was rowing into.
Pensé que esa mujer
podría ser la esposa perfecta—
poco conocí
el mar oscuro
que estaba por remar adentro.
~San Franciso, California, USA
On this long walk
I have fallen
behind everyone
I ever intended
to be.
~Tipton, cont.
Holiday season
volunteering
at the soup kitchen—
even the bums talking
about beautiful women.
En esta larga caminata
he retrocedido
a cada persona
que siempre he intentado
ser.
~Chapala, México
La temporada de festejos—
sirviendo
en la cocina de sopa
oigo aún los vagabundos
hablando de mujeres hermosas.
Do you want to see
where I live
or do you want to sit
on that bar stool
the rest of your life?
~Grand Junction, Colorado
The Mexican girl asked me
to translate to Spanish
the cowboy T-shirt
she just purchased:
“Ride Me,” it said.
¿Quieres ver
dónde vivo
o quieres sentarte
en ese banco de barra
el resto de tu vida?
~Boulder, Colorado, USA
Hay ride for senior citizens . . .
in the dark
his hand slides
under the straw
toward the silent widow.
Excursión para jubilados en carreta de
paja . . .
en la oscuridad
su mano se desliza
bajo la paja
hacia la viuda silenciosa.
La chica mexicana me preguntó
traducer a español
la camiseta vaquero
que ella acababa dre comprar
“Móntame” decia esta.
~Chapala, Mexico
Tropical storm—
the lights went out
while I was sitting on the bed
growing old
without you.
~Fruita, Colorado, USA
~Tipton, cont.
Tormenta tropical—
las luces fueron apagadas
mientras estaba sentado en la cama
envejeciendo
sin ti.
Supe que ella no era para mí
el día que regresó a casa
de una venta de cochera
con un regalo—
los calzoncillos de mi vecino muerto.
Shopping mall Santa
announces in a sad voice:
“Just remember
I never make
promises.”
~Puerto Vallarta, México
Two days after
his divorce is final,
her best friend
finally shows him
her tits.
Dos días después
de terminar el divorcio de él
la mayor amiga de ella
por fin le mostró
sus tetas.
Why do you
suddenly show up
at this house
that no longer belongs
to either of us?
El Santa del centro commercial
anuncia en voz triste
“Sólo recuerda
que nunca hago
promesas.”
~Denver, Colorado
This desert night
only me
and the Milky Way
share her
dark breasts.
Esta noche en el desierto
sólo yo
y la Vía Láctea
compartimos
sus oscuros senos.
¿Por qué de repente
apareces tú
en esta casa
que no pertenece más
a ninguno de nosotros
~Glade Park, Colorado, USA
I knew she was not for me
the day she returned home
from a garage sale
with a gift—
my dead neighbor’s underwear.
That woman I love
who is fifty years younger
has taken up
with a boring young man
whom I suspect is a lousy lover.
~Tipton, cont.
Esa mujer que amo
cincuenta años más joven
ha empezado una relación
con un joven aburrido
quien sospecho es un amante asqueroso.
~Ajijic, México
the sea is
a bittersweet song
about leaving,
returning,
and leaving forever
pity the skipjack
caught against the
red bones
of the Calvert Cliffs
by a Nor’easter
the brotherhood
of the winter sea:
sailors
by love or need
venture out
M. Kei
the wet slap
of a snowflake
in the face
a deckhand shoveling
a white hurricane
~Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, USA
the grey pillow
of the ship’s cat snoozing
at my feet
the red glow of security lights
and the creak of mooring lines
the dog we called
‘the schnoz’
innocent we were
in those days before
we heard about Holocausts
~Des Moines, Iowa, USA
beyond the green hills
there’s a grey sea waiting
and a tall ship sailing
I haven’t a penny in my pocket
nor any care for what’s left behind
they held a funeral
when she married a Gentile—
but they took her back
every time she ran home
to complain about her husband
~Wilmington, Delaware, USA
~Texas, USA
Patricia Prime
behind my house
a quarter-acre of grass
for sailing
a Frisbee with my grandson
this cold winter afternoon
small talent
for making things
out of boxes . . .
a flurry of activity
in the kindergarten
at night there is rain
by day the sight and sound
continues
you are somewhere else now
but the rain is always here
as night falls
over the hills
a leaf startles
it becomes apparent
you will not return
inconsequential—
my hand’s movement
rearranging
dust motes
on a stack of books
missing my grandson
here in the spare room
a collection
of handcrafted planes
hangs from the ceiling
in a field
a horse’s
slow canter
into cloudy traces
of this morning’s fog
in the fork
of a tree
a sparrow’s old nest
falling apart—
I take it to school next day
~Katikati, Bay of Plenty, New Zealand
rills of white
untrammelled
on the beach
where we walk two by two
speaking in whispers
the shell I take
from the seashore
contains a tiny crab . . .
the afternoon drifts along
until it’s time to go home
~Coromandel Beach, New Zealand
~Waihi Beach, Bay of Plenty, New Zealand
~Prime, cont.
walk in the park
little more can be done
with the present
what more can you be to me—
nothing can be prolonged
gulls swoop overhead
gliding over the waves
on the ocean
wingtips perfectly balanced
before they plummet to the sea
~Greymouth, South Island, New Zealand
you’re sitting here
with nothing much to say
writing poems
your desk is a mountaintop
you are unable to scale
it has been a year
since we walked
in Arthur’s Pass
on a clear winter day
snow on the mountains
~Greymouth, South Island, New Zealand
wherever I turn
grief astounds me
with its quiet visitation:
letters, cards, flowers, food,
eternity is everywhere I look
at the end
of the funeral service
a boy snuffs the candles
smoke curling towards
the stained-glass window
~Holy Family Church, Auckland, New
Zealand
a wooden bridge
no wider than a plank
where the boy
holds out his arms
and calls it going overseas
loss—it skids
over my face, fingers my heart,
then it’s gone,
and I’m not even sure
it was there
~Waitakere Ranges, Auckland
~St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Auckland, New
Zealand
J. Zimmerman
~Prime, cont.
if I could dissolve
slip along this line of light
into the moon—
there I would find you
among the stars
The stone-built village
where I was born
has shrunk
a barn has fallen
no one remembers my name
a moment
of quiet contemplation
along the cemetery path
where, pushed into the dirt,
is a small plastic windmill
~Settler’s Cemetery, South Island, New
Zealand
the beach is heaped
with bleached branches
as if a forest
had been rolled over
the ocean and dumped there
~Picton, South Island, New Zealand
~Troutbeck, Westmorland, UK
Driving his tractor
from farmyard to hayfield
down the country lane—
suddenly his playing child
tumbles under a wheel
~Troutbeck, Westmorland, UK
Iron-cylinder cages
try to straighten
my two-year-old legs
food scarce
in the rickety post-war
~post-WWII Britain
Sunny afternoon,
breezes riffle bamboo leaves . . .
but there, Iraq’s night
deepens into Ramadan,
bodies are carried home
you ask me
what are poems for?
they are to console us
with their gifts
in times of loneliness
~Washington, DC, and Iraq
~Zimmerman, cont.
I felt lonely
until I heard snow falling
through pine branches
and I found myself waiting
for the next new note
Mountain Hermitage—
so I don’t hear the shouldn’ts
and shoulds
I move the crucifix
to a drawer
~Colorado, USA
~Big Sur, California, USA
Anniversary
my beloved three years dead
hovering near my heart
in the heavy air
a hummingbird
~Japanese Garden, Portland, Oregon, USA
Blue Angels display—
the missing-man formation
low and quick and gone
even while he lived
her father absent
Mel Goldberg
~San Francisco, California, USA
no day
is as hard
as cheese stuck to the pan
after the metal
cools
Thick ocean fog
glints on bikes and railings
and a migrant’s truck—
in his palm the wedding ring
he’s about to sell
my grandson tells me
he knows the names
of the birds in our yard
“The one on the fence is George
Those others are Peter, Alice, and Ellen”
~Edge of a strawberry-picking field,
California Central Coast, USA
~Ajijic, México
André Surridge
summit
the rising sun casts
a shadow
of the mountain
on mist below
resembling
star fish from the Red Sea
these five-pointed stars
in Egyptian tombs
glow in the afterlife
~Sri Lanka
~Valley of the Kings, Egypt
shipwreck
in the Baltic Sea . . .
a bottle
of 200-year-old champagne
still full of bubbles
Gulf coast
a blue dragonfly stuck
to marsh grass
tries to clean oil
from its wings
~Baltic Sea
~Garden Island Bay, Louisiana, USA
after the stroke
she speaks with a curious
French accent
this woman who has
never left Norway
a man
whose forefathers
fought mine
gifts me his black
leather shoulder bag
~Norway
~Heidelberg, Germany
once aboard
headscarves come off
throughout
the aeroplane as women
shake free their hair
parking warden
leans against the meter
& smiles
people call me names
all the names under the sun
~Tehran, Iran
~Hamilton, New Zealand
~Surridge, cont.
all day
this smell of burning . . .
anniversary
of the Globe Theatre
razed to the ground
omen
lest the citadel fall
they guard
the Tower at all times
these six ravens
~London, England
~London, England
waiting
for the divine breath
of inspiration
we are holes
in the flute of God
I googled
my old home town
it was empty
except for the odd ghost
& an abandoned bicycle
~India (after Kabir)
~Knaresborough, England
birdbath
I meant to clean it before
the operation
a starling shakes itself
free of dirty water
dusk
this broken bridge
at Avignon . . .
I must find another
way to you
~Hamilton, New Zealand
~Avignon, France
retreat from Moscow
how soon the snow covered blood
and dying soldiers
through that white delirium
the trudge of bandaged snowmen
~Russia
Marilyn Humbert
Kath Abela Wilson
her eightieth birthday
candles and pink frosting,
reminiscing . . .
a gang of galahs
mass in the flowering gum
her bridal dress
this glacier
after ten thousand years
a glimpse of her slip
in this warm night
the nurse
shining her torch
on night rounds . . .
in the swamp
an ibis is stalking
~off the coast of Antarctica
stonewall chorale
my brother
his beautiful tenor
and now
only this silence
~Australia
~New York City, New York, USA
we shiver
inside and out strong winds
of feeling
are we bent
like these trees in the rain
~Santa Barbara coast, California, USA
Peggy Heinrich
in Chinatown
we buy three types of lichee
at an open market;
back in our hotel room
three tastes of China
~Oahu, Hawaii,USA
the bowl you gave me
too precarious to use
still holds the fat winter moon
a heavy crescent
folded over inside and out
~Pasadena, California, USA
Ad Beenackers
Spiros Zafiris
Paul Mercken, translator
In Montalivet,
waar de meisjes bloot lopen,
loop ik zelf ook bloot.
Je hoeft niet per se te lopen;
je kunt er ook fietsen.
Ter ere van de naturistencamping Centre
Helio Martin in Montalivet, aan de kust bij
Bordeaux, Frankrijk, waar Jock Sturges zijn
foto’s van naakte meisjes schiet.
In Montalivet,
where the girls walk naked,
I walk naked too.
One doesn’t have to walk;
one can cycle as well.
In honor of the naturism camp Centre
Hello Marin in Montalivet at the Atlantic
coast near Bordeaux, France, where Jock
Sturges is shooting his pictures of naked
girls.
I am
the everlasting trellis,
the old man sings
as he walks up
the mountain’s dirt road
each cobblestone
of the old city stirs
ancient memories
add to this horse-drawn carriages
and we forget the year we’re in
our heavy coats
we let lie on the floor
and hastily
we make coffee to bypass
any tiresome thoughts of distant spring
next to
the fireplace’s screen, he places
one ember . . .
to better imagine
man’s suffering
~Montreal, Quebec, Canada
Paul Mercken
De oude stad Gent—
haijin uit twintig landen
maken er banners
langs een kanaal en een boek
in veertien talen.
Dit gebeurde in de week van 13 tot 19
september. Twee-en-dertig deelnemers
plus vertalers alsmede eregast Herman Van
Rompuy en zes laureaten uit een
Nederlandstalige wedstrijd van 500
deelnemers.
Old city of Ghent—
haijin from twenty countries
make books and posters
along canal quays
in fourteen tongues.
This happened in the week from
September 13 through 19. Thirty-two
participants plus translators and honorary
guest Herman Van Rompuy and six winners of
a Dutch/Flemish contest from 500 participants.
Haikoe-dag Vlaand’ren—
Eyskens en Haiku Herman
geven gastlezing.
Zwaarwichtige staatslieden
doen aan stand-up comedy.
Op de Haikoe-dag Vlaanderen 2010 van 26
september op kasteel Steytelinck in Wilrijk
bij Antwerpen ontpopten Herman Van
Rompuy, president van de Europese Unie,
en zijn collega ex-eerste minister en lid van
de Raad van State Mark Eyskens, zich als
lichtvoetige conferenciers.
Haiku Day Flanders—
Eyskens and Haiku Herman
give keynote address.
Heavy weight politicians
become stand-up comedians.
At the Haiku Day Flanders 2010 of
September 26 in Steytelinck castle in Wilrijk
near Antwerp, Herman Van Rompuy, president
of the European Union, and his colleague exprime minister and member of the Council of
State Mark Eyskens, revealed themselves to be
jolly entertainers.
ARTICLES
Atlas Poetica welcomes book reviews and non-fiction articles relevant to poetry of
place. We accept non-fiction submissions year round.
Review: Breast Clouds,
by Noriko Tanaka
Reviewed by Patricia Prime
Breast Clouds
Noriko Tanaka
Amelia Fielden and Saeko Ogi, translators
Tokyo, JP: Tanka Kenkyusha, 2010
ISBN 978-4-86272-175-4
Available from the poet, Noriko Tanaka, at
<[email protected]> for $US 20
(postpaid).
Noriko Tanaka’s book Breast Clouds
forms a diary of her life from her twelve
collections of tanka: Breast Clouds, Ducks
and Peaches, The Aquarium, The Silent Trees,
Ash Moon, A Rough Moon, A Window Which
Invites The Sun, Snow Feathers (My Aunt), The
Spiral Staircase (My Elder Brother), The
Young Moon, The Summer Kingdom, and The
Black Frog. The book also includes the fifty
tanka set of the same title for which Noriko
Tanaka won the Third Nakajo Fumiko
Prize.
The author had the experience of
developing breast cancer and undergoing
surgery. In her Foreword, Tanaka expresses
where she found the title for her book
when she explains that breast clouds are
“ o m i n o u s c l o u d s w h i ch b r i n g t h e
foreboding of storms. They get their shapes
as they concentrate in the sky, hanging
there long and swollen.”
The book tackles the painful subject of
discovering one has cancer and the
ongoing trauma of surgery and recovery.
This is a topic that is difficult to write
about and one in which the author avoids
sentimentality as she focuses on the
realities of the situation. What one is
forced to admire about the collection is the
poet’s honesty about her own reactions.
She portrays herself (by turns) as being
accustomed to her loss:
having dropped my breast
into the hands of the gods,
I can only
accustom myself to this body
and a slight depression
enduring various irritations:
abed in the darkness
enduring the itch
after my operation
I can see bat wings
faintly flapping
and undergoing the discomforts of pain,
surgery and its aftermath:
in the evening
walking beneath the ginko trees’
dangling bark,
I think of the breast
I no longer have
It’s a very honest book. The poet isn’t
saintly, nor all-knowing, but wise and
p a t i e n t — s h e ’s h u m a n , fl a w e d a n d
sometimes peevish. Another reaction to
the sheer pain and meaninglessness of
things is her sense of humour:
in the children’s book
titled ‘Animal Breasts’
there are also
illustrations
of human breasts
I feel a shiver
when the young shark
coldly flashing
its blue dorsal fins
swims up close to me
Spiritual depth is evanescently
connected with the animals she
encounters on her trip to the zoo. Here we
see a mouse, a salamander, a lion, a pair of
crocodiles, lizards, frogs and other
animals, all of which remind her that both
animals and humans share the world in all
its beauty and suffering:
the century is like
a huge whirlpool—
and living in it
is every one
of these weak sardines
But the tanka find their real power when
Tanaka turns to the animals which have
been killed for food:
when I turn over
the duck meat,
I see, spread out
on its dark breast,
the skies it once flew
Poignant human emotions are nicely
balanced against close observation of
animals in the zoo and aquarium which
the poet visits. In a number of her tanka
the poet achieves an interplay between her
experiences and those of the animals she
observes:
The poet is fascinated by the yin and yang
of life, the real problem being, as she says
in a later tanka,
devouring the lives
of other creatures,
I extend my own life
by the same amount
one morning in August
Tanaka’s life hasn’t been an easy one:
suffering the loss of a breast from cancer,
the death of her parents, selling the house
she inherited, and the pain of divorce. The
twelve sections of her book form a diary
about her life. The middle sections of
Breast Clouds feature tanka about the poet’s
birthplace and her family
one after another
my relatives die—
“something
wrong there,”
people are saying
without mentioning
the ghost which haunts
this old house
I sold it off
to an unknown buyer
The final section, “The Black Frog,”
finds the poet contemplating the life she
sees in a pond:
seeing something motionless
at the edge of the pond,
I ask “is that a stone,”
and am told
“no, it’s a frog”
while the section entitled “The Young
Moon” chronicles her time researching
Man’yōshū at Nara Women’s University.
Here the world of her work is explored:
round the courtyard
at the Women’s University
o dark-earthed Nara,
voices of anti-government protestors
reverberated
while I’m contemplating
whether to rule red lines
on copies
of the commentaries,
I find the sun has set
Selling the house she inherited from
her parents, and leaving university without
being able to complete her postgraduate
degree, brings added stress to the poet’s
life:
Thus she brings the cycle of tanka to
full circle, as in a previous poem in “Ducks
and Peaches,” she commented on the
hardness of the lump in her beast being
like a plum stone:
late at night
I compare the hardness
of the cancer in my breast
to the stone
of a pickled plum from Kishu
This is a remarkable book, beautifully
published. The tanka are full of variety
with Japanese originals and English
translations on facing pages. Tanaka brings
a contemporary feel to her best tanka that
encapsulates the qualities of simplicity,
awareness, and economical imagery. The
tanka are infused with emotion, tenderness
and humility.
Review: Light on Water,
by Amelia Fielden
Reviewed by Patricia Prime
Light On Water
Amelia Fielden
Ginninderra Press, 2010, pp 132
ISBN 978-1-74027-6320
Order from Amelia Fielden at
<[email protected]>; $20 + postage.
Light on Water is Amelia Fielden’s sixth
tanka collection. The tanka have been
gathered from international journals and
anthologies, published mainly between
2006 and 2010. As Fielden says in her
Introduction:
My reason for collecting such tanka
here is to make them available to
interested readers who do not have
access to all— or perhaps to any—
of those journals and anthologies.
Rather than arrange the tanka by
chronology or theme, I have simply
listed them under the banners of
the various journals and anthologies
where they first appeared.
Light on Water is a driven collection
that spills its poems onto 132 pages.
Fielden holds nothing back, pouring out
her experiences of times lived in her
homes in Canberra and on the Central
Coast of Eastern Australia, USA, and
Japan. She tells her stories with a
straightforward simplicity and intensity.
Her terrain, as she says in her
Introduction, is “the proximity and
interplay of water: lakes, seas, rivers,
harbours,” and she delights in the shades
of light and dark, with which her life
experiences have been woven. Her tanka
are contemporary; her time is 2006 to
2010, and she provides a rich toned variety
of tanka, tanka strings, tanka prose, and
collaborative tanka strings with poets
Giselle Maya (France) and David Terelinck
(Australia).
The collection opens with two moving
tanka dedicated to the poet’s father,
Clifford Walters. Unfortunately Fielden’s
father did not live to read any of his
daughter’s books:
I sense him
whenever I enter
libraries
or second-hand bookstores,
my father, the reader
empty for years
like Gold Coast without Dad,
his ginger jar
deserves refilling
to preserve what it can
In the next pages, from the Australian
journal, Eucalypt, we witness scenes from
the poet’s homeland of Australia—from
Christmas in summer:
rooftop tiles
rippled with sunshine
and shadows
from cicada-shrill gum trees
Christmas in summer
to the poet’s next-door neighbour:
the roof gutters
of our unpleasant neighbour
turned to gold
by the setting sun
like something out of Proverbs
What Fielden brings to this world is a
woman’s voice that is fresh and full of
feeling. She takes people and events
seriously. From the Eucalypt Internet
Challenges, Fielden provides tanka on the
themes of The Tea Towel, The Year of the
Mouse, Feeling the Squeeze, First Words
and The Year of the Tiger. One example is
the following tanka from the First Words
Challenge:
mid-argument
I look out the window
remark on
a Bird of Paradise
flamboyantly in flower
The next section of tanka is taken from
the Australian haiku journal, paper wasp.
Once again we are in the Australian
landscape:
belling through
the pre-dawn stillness
birdsong silenced
by a kookaburra
arriving on our rooftop
A tanka string published in the Poets’
Union 2010 Anthology follows. Here Fielden
uses repetition of the word ‘someone’ to
give her poem emphasis:
someone I love
insists on buying eggs
from caged hens,
calls my free-range ones
a waste of money
someone I like
barbecues slabs of meat
regularly
points out cute lambs and calves
in the paddocks, to his kids
There are tanka here, too, from Wind
Over Water, an anthology of haiku and tanka
by delegates of the Fourth Haiku Pacific
Rim Conference and individual awardwinning tanka published 2003–2006 in
Yellow Moon.
From the Canadian journal Gusts:
Contemporary Tanka, Fielden presents 16
tanka. These are engaging poems—pieces
pushing the boundaries of the emotions
tanka can express. Sometimes they are very
moving, as with
ah, my friend
once more we are meeting
soon to part . . .
almost half a century
and still this pattern holds
The next section contains tanka strings
which were published in The Tanka Journal
(2008–2010). These are titled “The Green
Lake Weeks,” “Sakura, Sakura,” “Not Yet
Too Old,” “Pink and White Spring” and
“Born in Australia.” My favourite of these is
“Sakura, Sakura”. Here is one tanka from
this string:
that silver glow
of cherry blossoms
at twilight
poem after poem
opening in my heart
Fielden has had many tanka published
in the New Zealand haiku journal Kokako.
One I particularly like is:
rain-blurred river
a white stripe painted
on the grey
by a boat motoring
more purposefully than I
Among several individual tanka,
published in the UK journal Presence, is
the following:
Following these strings are seasonal
tanka from various ‘chains’ written
responsively with Mari Konno and
p u b l i s h e d i n T h e Ta n k a J o u r n a l
(2007-2009). A lovely example is this one
with a winter theme:
lake in stillness
frost spiking the grass
magpies calling
from grey-green eucalypts:
the winters I remember
From various anthologies come the
following tanka. This from the Anthology
of the 3rd Haiku Pacific Rim Conference,
held in Matsuyama, 2007:
spring mountain:
lowering his sights
he confides
‘this canola scent
reminds me of England’
another fumble
as ripples of foreboding
cross my heart—
will I love you enough
when your mind has failed us
Many of Fielden’s tanka, tanka strings
and tanka prose, have been published in
USA journals. From Atlas Poetica: A Journal
of Place in Contemporary Tanka comes the
following individual tanka:
almost touching
my slow train window
magnolias
outlined in magenta—
I could life here again
Tanka strings published in Atlas Poetica
include the following titles: “Still No
Rain,” “’It Happened in Monterey . . .’”
“California, Monterey,” and “Asilomar.” A
tanka prose piece published in the same
journal is entitled “Just Sitting There.”
The tanka concluding the poem is
“can this be love?”
the shelter terrier
rides to town
with her companion
in a matching sweater
in someone’s house
there is a baby crying
not for me
yet I still turn
toward that need
In this USA section, there are also
tanka published in Landfall: Poetry of Place
in Modern English Tanka, Moonbathing: a
Journal of Tanka, Magnapoets, Modern
English Tanka, Moonset, Red Lights, Ribbons,
Simply Haiku—a Quarterly Electronic
Journal of Japanese Short Form Poetry, Tanka
Online and White Lotus: A Journal of Short
Asian Verse and Haiga.
Several tanka strings from Modern
English Tanka are included. Their titles are
“And Now the Peonies . . .” North-Western
Summer 2008,” “August* Thoughts in
Canberra,” “Grandma’s Song 2009,” and
“Now Blow.” A tanka string published in
Moonset is called “’If Music Be the Food of
Love, Play on’ (W. Shakespeare),” and one
from Red Lights is entitled “This is the
Season.”
Here are two examples of Fielden’s
tanka from the themed section “The Tanka
Café” in Ribbons:
Welcome and Farewell
going home
across the Pacific
such distance
between life as it’s dreamed
and life as it is
The Sixth Sense
Fielden has also had tanka prose pieces
published in Modern Haibun and Tanka
Prose, 2009. These are called “Innocence,”
“Rich Days” and “Pale Yellow.” The poet
also includes a tanka string abridged from
a long tanka prose piece published in
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose, which is
entitled “’When I grow to old to dream, I
will have this to remember.’” Here are two
examples of tanka from the string:
the short bright day
becomes a night too long . . .
lying awake
in a rain-wet world,
pillowed on rice husks
remembered dreams
wrapped in silk squares
to stow away
in a secret drawer
for sharing with no one
A tanka string published in Moonset
2010 was written responsively between
Fielden and French poet, Giselle Maya. It
is called “Summer and Winter Dreams.”
in clear shallows
tiny black fish darting
between tanned legs
of children at play
under the summer sun
A
a ribbon of moss
flows down the ochre cliffs—
I become a falcon
take off in flight
to the snow mountain
have been a tremendous task to compile
the collection and it will provide a valuable
resource for anyone interested in reading
tanka or composing their own poems.
Consistency is the hall mark of this
collection. The typographical simplicity of
the section headings adds style to the book
and complements the merit of the tanka.
G
The final piece in the collection is a
previously unpublished tanka string
written responsively in 2010 between
Fielden and an Australian poet, David
Terelinck. It is entitled “Rip Tide.” Here
are two tanka from this string
a white heron
and its reflection, stepping
delicately
through the shallow water—
what keeps us here, now?
A
stunted she-oaks
clinging to wind-whipped
coastal cliffs—
ambushed by this ache
to spend time apart
Reading Schedule for
Atlas Poetica
#9, Summer 2010: Submit Mar 15— Apr 30.
Publishes July 15, 2011.
#10, Autumn 2010: Submit Jul 15— Aug 31.
Publishes Nov 15, 2011.
#11, Spring 2011: Submit Nov 15, 2011— Dec
31. Publishes March 15, 2012.
Full guidelines and free back issues
available at: <http://AtlasPoetica.org>
D
A professional Japanese translator who
also writes original verse in the traditional
tanka form, Amelia Fielden has gathered
together in one volume, many of her
published individual tanka, tanka strings,
tanka prose and responsive tanka. It must
All
submissions
go
to:
<[email protected]> in the body
of an email. No attachments.
Subscribe
to
[email protected] to receive calls
for submissions and other announcements.
ANNOUNCEMENTS
A t l a s Po e t i c a w i l l p u b l i s h s h o r t
announcements in any language up to 300
words in length on a space available basis.
Announcements may be edited for brevity,
clarity, grammar, or any other reason. Send
announcements in the body of an email to:
[email protected]—do not send
attachments.
***
American Tanka Returns as an
Online Journal Edited by Laura
Maffei
American Tanka, which was founded in
1996 by Laura Maffei as a perfect-bound
print journal with 17 issues published
from 1996 - 2007, will return later this year
as an ongoing online journal, with Laura
as editor. The online version will allow
greater and more immediate accessibility
worldwide and at the same time keep to
the original American Tanka aesthetic of
viewing one tanka at a time. Currently
inviting submissions. Please send up to 5
of your best, most well-crafted original
English-language tanka (not published
elsewhere) to [email protected], in
the body of the e-mail (no attachments
please), along with a one-line "about the
author" (30 words or fewer).
American Tanka, Inc. is still a not-forprofit 501(c)(3) corporation, and donations
are tax-deductible. They may be sent to
Executive Director Tim Younce, 4906 W.
State Route 55 , Troy, OH 45373.
***
Important tanka scholarship
by M. Kei available at
Tanka Central
Tw o i m p o r t a n t i t e m s o f t a n k a
scholarship have been posted to the
TankaCentral website’s Research Desk
facility at <http://www.themetpress.com/
tankacentral/library/research/>. Both are
by well-known tanka poet, editor, and
scholar, M. Kei.
‘A History of Tanka in English Pt 1 :
T h e N o r t h A m e r i c a n Fo u n d a t i o n ,
1899-1985’ (Version 2011.1.4) by M. Kei.
(January 4, 2010.) [PDF], located at <http://
w w w. t h e m e t p r e s s. c o m / t a n k a c e n t r a l /
l i b r a r y / r e s e a r c h /
KeiTankaHistoryPartOne.pdf>
Bibliography of English-Language Tanka,
Version (2010.12.31), located at <http://
w w w. t h e m e t p r e s s. c o m / t a n k a c e n t r a l /
l i b r a r y / r e s e a r c h /
K e i B i b l i o Ta n k a E n g l i s h 2 0 1 0 . p d f > .
Compiled by M. Kei & updated on
December 31, 2010. [PDF]
Both contain contact information for
M. Kei so that corrections, additions, etc.,
may be submitted to him.
The MET Press is proud to make these
resources available to the public through
our TankaCentral website and is grateful to
M. Kei for his generosity in permitting
their publication.
D e n i s M . G a r r i s o n , p u b l i s h e r,
[email protected]
***
mango moons
Call for Submissions
Muse India,www.museindia.com an
online literary journal, is seeking
submissions in contemporary haiku,
tanka, and haibun from around the world.
mango moons—will go online on 1st
May 2011. Original, unpublished haiku,
tanka and haibun, not under consideration
elsewhere, are welcome from all writers.
Please send submissions of 5–10 haiku
poems and / or 5–10 tanka poems, and / or
2 to 3 haibun for our perusal. Do send
your work, duly edited.
India is awakening to the world of
haiku, tanka and haibun and we would
love to showcase your best work in this
special edition.
Please note: Submissions are only
open from 1st February to 15th March
2011. Email submissions are encouraged.
Type "Muse India" in the subject line,
and do include a short 50 word bio & a jpg
photo of yours (optional), in your
submission mail.
Please type your haiku, tanka and
haibun in the body of the message,
formatted as plain text. Attachments will
not be opened. Email submissions should
be sent to kalaramesh8 [at] gmail [dot] com
(please replace [at] and [dot] with proper
symbols before sending
Muse India retains first rights, meaning
that if your work is subsequently
published elsewhere, Muse India must be
cited as the original place of publication.
Once your work has been accepted, we
reserve the right to publish the chosen
poems, in the online issue and in the print
journal of Muse India.
Keenly looking forward to reading your
lovely work, and please do pass the word
around.
Warmly,
Surya Rao
Managing Director, Muse India
and
Kala Ramesh
Editor of mango moons, Muse India
***
Simply Haiku
http://simplyhaiku.webs.com/ or
http://www.freewebs.com/simplyhaiku
Submissions for the Spring issue
accepted from January 15 through March
15, 2011.
Accepting Quality Traditional English
Language Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, Haiga,
Renga, Book reviews, Interviews and
Feature articles. Please read carefully the
Submission Guidelines before submitting:
<http://simplyhaiku.webs.com/
submissionguidelines.htm>
Robert D. Wilson & Sasa Vazic
C o - O w n e r s, C o - P u b l i s h e r s, C o Editors-in-Chief
***
Poets On Site
Poets on Site will welcome poems for
our current programs. Each book will
include a special “tanka tour” as well as
welcome haiku and every form of poetry.
You will find here links to inspiration
sites for our four new programs <http://
www.poetsonsite.blogspot.com> and
continue to check for new projects on that
page.
Poets on Site is an ongoing cooperative
poetic writing and performance group
created by Kath Abela Wilson, with
Pasadena poets in 2008. Since then they
have created over 25 books and programs
celebrating sites of inspiraton.
Poets write in inspiring environments
and perform on site of their inspiration
with musicians, dancers, and artists in
response to shared experience of nature,
science, and the arts. Also see <http://
www.oldflutes.com/poetsonsite> for our
archive, MUSE Award, and links to past
performances.
Submit to: [email protected]
***
New Blog Feature at Lilliput
Review
I’m starting a new blog feature at Issa’s
Untidy Hut: Wednesday Haiku.
For details, please see today’s post, as
follows. If you could pass the word to
fellow poets, I certainly would appreciate
it.
<http://lilliputreview.blogspot.com/
2011/01/wednesday-haiku-issas-untidyhut.html>
Don Wentworth, Editor
Lilliput Review
282 Main Street
Pittsburgh, PA 15201
<http://sites.google.com/site/lilliputreview>
Email: [email protected]
Issa’s Untidy Hut - The Lilliput Review Blog
<http://lilliputreview.blogspot.com>
Prune Juice : A Journal of Senryu &
Kyoka : Issue 5 Winter 2011 has
been published
PRUNE JUICE Journal of Senryu &
Kyoka : Issue 5 Winter 2011 has been
published. It is available to read FREE
online. Visit our website at <http://
prunejuice.wordpress.com>.
We are now accepting submissions of
senryu and kyoka for our forthcoming
sixth issue, to be released in July 2011.
Visit our submissions page for details.
Please feel free to spread this
announcement as widely as possible.
Many thanks,
Liam Wilkinson
Editor, Prune Juice
Prune Juice
Journal of Senryu & Kyoka
Edited by Liam Wilkinson
http://prunejuice.wordpress.com
***
Moonbathing : A Journal of
Women’s Tanka
No previously published tanka or
simultaneous submissions; no tanka that
has been posted on-line on a personal
website/blog.
SUBMISSION ADDRESSES:
Send your tanka in the body of an
email to: Pamela A. Babusci: moongate44
(at)gmail(dot)com Please no Attachments.
E-mail submissions only.
I hope that all tanka poets who have
their work accepted will support
Moonbathing by purchasing a copy or a
subscription. If Moonbathing is to survive it
will need your support and I will be most
grateful for it. Donations most welcome.
COPIES/SUBSCRIPTIONS:
Subscriptions: $10 for one year (two
issues) U.S. and Canada; $5 for single
issue. International: $14 (two issues) $7
single issue U.S. dollars; send US cash or
international M.O.—payable to Pamela A.
Babusci to:
Moonbathing Editor
150 Milford Street Apt. 13
14615-1810 USA
Moonbathing will publish two issues a
year: Fall/Winter and Spring/Summer.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:
Moonbathing will feature only women
poets. Send a maximum of 10 tanka per
submission period. Submission deadlines:
Spring/Summer: In-hand Deadline:
May 15th spring/summer themes or nonseasonal only.
***
Gogyohka vs. Gogyoshi
The term ‘gogoyhka’ has been trademarked
in Japan by Enta Kusakabe. ATPO will
now use ‘gogyoshi’, a public domain term
instead. ATPO 10 will focus on gogyohka
and gogyoshi with articles and poetry.
BIOGRAPHIES
Ad Beenacker, a psychologist, has
published five books with Eburon publishers
in Delft and more than thirty articles in
scientific magazines. His dissertation was
crowned with a special prize of the department
of National Health. Apart from his scientific
work he regularly publishes poetry in literary
magazines. In 2005, Oude Emmer, verhoor mijn
gebed (Old pail, hear my prayer) was published
by IJzer in Utrecht: a book in Dutch with 150
poetry reviews in which 500 of the best short
poems of the world are featured. He lives in
Utrecht.
Alex von Vaupel lives in Utrecht,
Netherlands, with his many dictionaries and a
balcony veg garden. His tanka appear in Atlas
Poetica, Concise Delight, and Prune Juice. Two of
his tanka won a Tanka Splendor Award (2009).
Visit his website http://alexvonvaupel.com.
Alexis Rotella has been writing haiku,
senryu and tanka for 30 years. Her latest books
include Lip Prints, Ouch and Eavesdropping.
Alexis practices acupuncture in Arnold,
Maryland, USA.
Amelia Fielden is an Australian,a
professional translator and a poet. Fifteen
books of her translations of Japanese tanka
have been published, and six of her original
English tanka, the latest of which is Light on
Water, 2010. Yesterday, Today & Tomorrow,
responsive tanka with Kathy Kituai, is
forthcoming.
André Surridge was born in Hull,
England, and lives in the city of Hamilton, New
Zealand. He has won awards for haiku and
tanka and his work has been widely published
including: Atlas Poetica; Modern English Tanka;
Presence; Magnapoets; Tanka Splendor; Eucalypt;
Bravado; Kokako; Simply Haiku; Prune Juice; The
Heron’s Nest; paper wasp, Sketchbook & Take Five.
Angela Leuck has edited numerous
anthologies and is the author of Flower Heart,
Garden Meditations and A Cicada in the Cosmos.
She is the Vice President of Haiku Canada and
co-founder of Gusts: Contemporary Tanka. She
lives in Montreal. Visit her blog: A Poet in the
Garden at <http://www.acleuck.blogspot.com>.
Bob Lucky lives in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia,
where he teaches history and English. His
work has appeared in various journals.
Bruce England began writing haiku
seriously in 1984. Other related interests
include haiku theory and haiku practice and
the occasional tanka. A chapbook, Shorelines,
was published with Tony Mariano in 1998.
Dr. Carmella Braniger, a native of Ohio, is
a graduate of Muskingum College, Johns
Hopkins University, and Oklahoma State
University. An Associate Professor of English,
she teaches creative writing at Millikin
University, in Decatur, Illinois. Her poems have
appeared in Sycamore Review, MagnaPoets,
Moonbathing, The Dirty Napkin, and Modern
English Tanka. Her chapbook, No One May
Follow, was published by Pudding House
Publications in 2009. She started writing and
publishing collaborative tanka series and
sequences with Natalie Perfetti and haiku
master, Randy Brooks, who mentored her into
the English tanka writing tradition.
carol pearce-worthington is a medical
writer/editor in new york, ny, usa.
Carol Raisfeld is Director of
WHChaikumultimedia and a member of The
Tanka Society of America, The World Haiku
Association, The Academy of American Poets.
Her poetry, art and photography have
published around the world.
Chen-ou Liu was born in Taiwan and
emigrated to Canada in 2002. He lives in Ajax, a
suburb of Toronto. Chen-ou Liu is a
contributing writer for Rust+Moth and Haijinx
Quarterly. His poetry has been published and
anthologized worldwide. His tanka have been
honored with awards.
Christina Nguyen is a writer living in
Hugo, Minnesota. She encourages poets on
Twitter as @TinaNguyen and offers up a weekly
gogyoshi prompt, #Gpoem. Christina is also an
active member of the Gogyohka Junction
community. In 2011, some of her work will
appear in Prune Juice and The Temple Bell Stops:
Contemporary Poems of Grief, Loss and Change.
Claire Everett was born in Shropshire,
England but now lives with her husband and
five children in County Durham. She is new to
publication, but in recent months her work has
appeared in Lyrical Passion Poetry e-zine, Simply
Haiku, Magnapoets, American Tanka, Blithe
Spirit, Sketchbook, Haiku News, and The Mainichi
Daily News. She was delighted to win 2nd and
3 r d p r i z e s i n t h e T h i n k Ta n k a 2 0 1 0
international competition. Claire enjoys
walking, especially in the Lake District and on
the Yorkshire Moors.
David Caruso’s interest in haiku and tanka
began when he took a college course entitled
“Buddhist Poets of Japan.” His poems have
appeared in many journals and anthologies,
including bottle rockets, modern Haiku, moonset,
red lights, frogpond and Take Five : Best
Contemporary Tanka. He lives in Haddonfield,
New Jersey, with his wife, Maggy and their
three children.
David Terelinck is an emerging Australian
tanka poet enjoying the journey alongside
experienced mentors and colleagues. His
recent publications include journals in
Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Canada, USA &
UK. ‘No Matter the Season’ is his second
responsive sequence with Amelia Fielden.
Gary LeBel is a poet/painter living in the
greater Atlanta, Georgia area. He earns his
bread as an industrial consultant for a
company he co-founded.
Genie Nakano is a writer and dancer.
Currently she teaches Dance, Gentle Yoga and
Laughter Yoga in Southbay, California and is a
journalist for Gardena Valley News. Her haiku
and related forms have been published in
Contemporary Haibun Online, Heron’s Nest, Atlas
Poetica, TinyWords, Ribbons, Moonbathing,
Modern Haiku, Frogpond, and the Red Moon
Anthology.
Gerry Jacobson has been published in
Eucalypt, Ribbons, Moonset, and Atlas Poetica. In
2008 Gerry and friends walked 500 miles across
England following leylines. Their collective
story of this journey, Awakening Albion, was
recently published.
Guy Simser, called an “imagist and
“humourist” by lyric poet Marianne Bluger,
Guy has written in English and Japanese
poetry forms since 1980, including five years
service in Japan. His poems have appeared in
over 50 anthologies/journals in Japan, USA,
Canada, England, and Australia. Awards
include the Diane Brebner Poetry Prize
(Canada); Tanka Splendor (USA); Special Prize,
Hekinan Int’l Haiku (Japan). He currently
serves as co-chair of the August 2009 HNA
Crosscurrents Conference in Ottawa, Canada.
Helen Buckingham currently lives in
Bristol (UK). Her short form poems have
appeared throughout the world, and in 2009
she took third place in the Saigyo Tanka
Awards. This year has seen the publication of
her first full-length collection of haiku, titled
Water on the Moon (Original Plus Press, UK)
and another in collaboration with Angela
Leuck, titled Turning Fifty in celebration of
their both hitting the big 50.
J. Zimmerman was born in northwest
England. She lives on the West Coast of the
USA. Her work has appeared in Eucalypt,
Frogpond, Heron’s Nest, Modern English Tanka,
Modern Haiku, Moonbathing, Moonset, Ribbons,
Roadrunner, and elsewhere. She is foundereditor of Poetry at Ariadne’s Web <http://
www.baymoon.com/~ariadne>.
Jackson Lewis is a sophomore at Millikin
University, majoring in writing with a minor in
theater. He began writing tanka in the Tanka
Writing Roundtable in the fall 2009 and has
found it impossible to stop writing tanka in his
p o cke t j o u r n a l . H e e n j oy s t h e s o c i a l
collaboration of creating a tanka sequence such
as the round-robin sequence, ‘Where We Come
From: A Tanka Quartet’ which was published in
the October 2010 issue of LYNX magazine.
Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah, born in 1968
in Ho, Ghana, and educated at University of
Cape Coast. He is a vegetarian, artist, poet,
journalist and teacher. He lives in Winneba, a
centre of learning in Ghana.
Jade Pandora is a resident of Los Angeles,
California; she is the 2010 recipient of the
Matthew Rocca Poetry Award (Deakin
University, Australia). She has studied and
written Japanese short form poetry since 2007.
A published poet, she can be found at <http://
jade-pandora.deviantart.com>.
James Tipton has been publishing poetry
for forty years. His credits include Haiku,
Modern Haiku, frogpond, American Tanka, The
Tanka Journal, and Modern English Tanka. All the
Horses of Heaven was recently published.
Jeffrey Harpeng has recent haibun and
tanka prose in the latest Haibun Today and due
in Contemporary Haibun Online.
Jim Bainbridge’s poems and short stories
have appeared in Berkeley Fiction Review, LIT,
Poetry East, Red Cedar Review, South Carolina
Review, and other journals. His first novel,
Human Sister, was published in 2010.
Joseph Bein is a junior at Millikin
University with a double major in theater and
writing. He learned the art of writing tanka in
the Tanka Writing Roundtable in the Fall 2009
semester, co-taught by Dr. Braniger and Dr.
Brooks. He enjoys the challenge of crafting
formal verse and seeks to find the music in
free-verse tanka poetry. He was also a co-author
of ‘Where We Come From: A Tanka Quartet.’
Joyce S. Greene lives with her husband in
upstate New York and began seriously writing
Japanese short form poetry in September,
2009. Working as a staff accountant by day, she
writes at night. Her poems have been
p u b l i s h e d i n 3 L i g h t s, E u c a l y p t , G u s t s,
Moonbathing, Prune Juice, red lights, Ribbons, and
Simply Haiku. Also, one of her tanka appears in
the Catzilla! anthology.
Kath Abela Wilson travels the world with
her professor husband. She is the creator and
leader of the band of Poets on Site, a poetry
performance group.
Kris Lindbeck teaches Jewish Studies at
Florida Atlantic University. Her first poetry
publication was the Biblically-inspired
“Gomer’s Complaint” in the 2003 Fall issue of
CrossCurrents. Haiku, and now tanka, are a new
adventure, coming partly in response to
moving to moving to Florida in 2006, and
encountering an entirely new sub-tropical
climate.
Liam Wilkinson’s poetry has been
published widely in print and on the Internet.
He is the editor of Prune Juice: Journal of Senryu
& Kyoka and 3LIGHTS Journal. Liam lives with
his wife in North Yorkshire, England.
M. Kei is the editor of Atlas Poetica and
editor-in-chief of the anthology series Take
Five : Best Contemporary Tanka. He is a tall ship
sailor in real life and recently published a
trilogy of nautical novels featuring a gay
protagonist, Pirates of the Narrow Seas. He also
is the editor of the recent anthology, Catzilla!
Tanka, Kyoka and Gogyohka about Cats.
Margaret Dornaus holds an M.F.A. in
literary translation from the University of
Arkansas. She currently teaches Humanities
and English at the University of Arkansas/Fort
Smith, in addition to working as a freelance
writer for several national magazines and
newspapers. She also writes haiku on a daily
basis and recently has discovered the world of
tanka. Her first published tanka appears in the
January 2011 edition of Moonlighting.
Margaret Van Every resides in San
Antonio Tlayacapan, a village on Lake Chapala
near Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico. She is the
author of a book of tanka entitled A Pillow
Stuffed with Diamonds (Librophilia Press, 2010).
<http://librophilia.com>
Margarita Engle is the Cuban-American
author of books about the island, most recently
The Surrender Tree from Henry Holt & Co. in
April, 2008. The Poet Slave of Cuba (Henry Holt
& Co., 2006) received many honors, including
the Americas Award, presented at the Library
of Congress. Margarita lives with her family in
Clovis, California.
Marilyn Humbert lives in an outer
n o r t h e r n s u b u r b o f S y d n ey Au s t r a l i a
surrounded by bush. She is a member of
Bottlebrush Tanka group led by Jan Foster and
Fellowship of Australia Writers North Shore
Regional. Marilyn is an enthusiastic writer of
Tanka, Haiku and free verse.
Martha Alcántar was born and raised in a
village on the southern Pacific Coast of
Mexico. She now lives in Chapala, Mexico,
where she works as a masseuse. She
translated, “with a little help from her friends,”
James Tipton’s bilingual collection of tanka,
All the Horses of Heaven/Todos los Caballos del
Paraíso. And, she is also the wife of James
Tipton.
Mary Mageau discovered the refined
beauty of Japanese culture when she studied
the floral art form of Ikebana. Digital
photography also remains a favourite pastime
as she captures Australia’s brilliant array of
trees, flowers, and foliage for her exploration of
haiga. Mary’s writings in the verse forms of
haiku, senryu, tanka, and haibun are regularly
published on web sites and in literary
magazines. She lives with her husband in rural
southeast Queensland.
Mel Goldberg, after graduating from the
University in California, taught in California,
Illinois, Arizona and England. In 1990 he
published a book of poetry and photography,
The Cyclic Path. In 2001 he published Sedona
Poems for the Sedona, AZ, centennial. His
novel, Choices, and his book of short stories, A
Cold Killing, are available on Kindle. His stories
and poems have been published in magazines
and on line in The United States, Mexico, the
United Kingdom, and Australia. For six years
he lived and traveled in a motor home from
Alaska to Mexico. He now lives in Ajijic,
Jalisco, Mexico.
Micheline Beaudry lives in the South
Shore of Montreal. She published Les maisons
des femmes battues au Québec, Saint-Martin,
1984, which was translated into English as
Battered Women, Black Rose Books, 1985.
Blanche memoire, a renku with Jean Dorval, was
published by les Éditions David, 2002, as well
as Les couleurs du vent, 2004. She has
participated in various international haiku
anthologies and was a founding member of
l’Association française du haiku.
Mike Montreuil lives in the old city of
Gloucester with his family and their cats. His
English and French haiku, tanka, and haibun
have been published on-line or in print
throughout the world.
Patricia Prime is co-editor of the New
Zealand magazine Kokako and review editor of
Stylus. She has published poetry in
collaboration with fellow NZ poet Catherine
Mair. Ongoing work includes an essay on
African poetry and an essay on haiku by Indian
poets.
Paul Mercken, was born at Leuven,
Belgium, in 1934, but grew up in Hasselt
(province of Limburg). He did post-doctoral
research in Cambridge, Oxford and Florence
and taught in the U.S.A. and the Netherlands.
He specialised in the history of medieval
philosophy at Utrecht University and became a
medievalist. He has two daughters, born in
1969 and 1970. He lives near Utrecht and is
secretary of the Dutch Haiku Association. He
calls himself a humanist and regards poetry
and the art of translating as a powerful means
to build bridges between people.
Paul Smith lives in Worcester, UK. He
recently encountered gogyoka and is exploring
the differences and similarities between it and
tanka in English. In addition to poetry, he has a
passion for African (Djembe) drumming. An
award winning poet, his poems have appeared
in numerous print and online journals.
Peggy Heinrich’s poems have appeared in
American Tanka, red lights, Ribbons, Moonset and
many other publications and anthologies
worldwide. She is a founding member of the
Tanka Society of America and the Grand
Central Tanka Café, a workshop of tanka poets.
A native New Yorker, she recently resettled in
Santa Cruz, California, after many cold winters
in Connecticut.
Dr. Randy Brooks is Dean of Arts &
Sciences at Millikin University where he
teaches courses on publishing, haiku
traditions, and tanka writing. He is editor of
Mayfly magazine and publisher of Brooks
Books. He was introduced to modern tanka in
1976 by Dr. Sanford Goldstein and has been
writing haiku and tanka ever since. He is the
web editor for Modern Haiku magazine and web
editor for Frogpond, journal of the Haiku
Society of America. His tanka have appeared in
several journals and the Take Five Best
Contemporary Tanka 2008 and 2009 anthologies.
Robert Rotella has recently retired as a
patent attorney from NASA.
Rodney Williams’ tanka have appeared in
various journals in America (including Atlas
Poetica, MET, Moonset & Ribbons), Australia,
(including Eucalypt & paper wasp), Austria,
(Chrysanthemum), and New Zealand (Kokako), as
well as in Haiku Canada and The Gean Tree. He
has been represented in an Atlas Poetica feature
showcasing 25 Australian tanka poets, and in
Catzilla!—a collection of tanka about cats—
while he will also appear in an Atlas Poetica
selection of tanka for children.
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer is an organic
fruit grower who serves as the appointed Poet
Laureate of San Miguel County in southwest
Colorado. Her favorite one-word mantra:
Adjust.
Sanford Goldstein has been publishing
tanka for more than forty years. He is cotranslator of several collections of Japanese
tanka poets.
to a farm in Saint-Paul de Joliette. The
language spoken at home was Lithuanian. Her
mother told stories of old kings and knights
and epic battles. The language at the convent
was French. She married a man from Yorkshire
and lived in England and now lives in Ajijic on
Lake Chapala in Mexico. The heart’s home
remains Lithuania.
Sean Greenlaw grew up in Torrington,
Connecticut, and has called Hawaii, New York,
and New Hampshire home. Ey roasts coffee,
designs websites, and writes poetry. Eir work
has been featured in journals, anthologies, the
internet, and grubby dogeared notebooks that
nobody was meant to see. Ey is currently in the
middle of moving to Portland, Oregon, USA.
Spiros Zafiris is a Montreal poet, 61 years
old, single, and not looking. He has selfpublished two books of poetry (Very Personal
and Midnight Magic; 1979/1981). His poems
have appeared in Modern English Tanka and
other places, but he doesn’t send out his
poems as often as he should.
Susan Constable’s Japanese poetry forms
have appeared in over 30 print and on-line
publications around the world, including
Montage : The Book, A New Resonance 6, and in
the Red Moon Anthologies. Her tanka can be
found in Ribbons, Gusts, and 3Lights. She lives
on the west coast of Canada.
Terry Ingram. Retired advertising writerproducer-director. Writing Haiku, Senryu,
Haibun and Tanka since 2002. Born and raised
in southern Illinois. Attended the University of
Illinois in Champaign-Urbana. Now resides in
Texas, USA
Zofia Barisas was born in Montreal,
Canada. When she was five her family moved
INDEX
Ad Beenackers, 61
Alexis Rotella, 36, 38
Amelia Fielden, 28, 48
Angela Leuck,
André Surridge, 58
Angela Leuck, 9
Bob Lucky, 30
Bruce England, 36, 39
Carmella Jean Braniger, 14
carol pearce-worthington, 12
Carol Raisfeld, 37, 45
Chen-ou Liu, 25, 32
Christina Nguyen, 22
Claire Everett, 40
David Caruso, 47
David Terelinck, 28
Gary Lebel, 31
Genie Nakano, 13
Gerry Jacobsen, 21
Guy Simser, 39
Helen Buckingham, 41
KathAbela Wilson,
Kris Lindbeck,
J. Zimmerman, 56
Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah, 48
Jade Pandora, 44
James Tipton, 50
Jackson Lewis, 14
Jeffrey Harpeng, 20
Jim Bainbridge, 36
Joseph Bein, 14
Joyce S. Greene, 19
Kath Abela Wilson, 60
Kris Lindbeck, 29
Liam Wilkinson, 44
M. Kei, 7, 35, 37, 53
Margaret Dornaus, 26
Margaret Van Every, 33, 37, 46
Margarita Engle, 37
Mary Mageau, 13
Marilyn Humbert, 60
Martha Alcántar, 45, 50
Mel Goldberg, 57
Micheline Beaudry, 49
Mike Montreuil, 21, 49
Patricia Prime, 36, 54, 63, 66
Paul Mercken, 61, 62
Paul Smith, 37, 47
Peggy Heinrich, 37, 60
Randy Brooks, 14
Robert Rotella, 36
Rodney Williams, 42
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, 46
Sanford Goldstein, 27
Sean Greenlaw, 42
Spiros Zafiris, 61
Susan Constable, 43
Terry Ingram, 11, 34
Zofia, Barisas, 10
Our ‘butterfly’ is actually an Atlas moth (Attacus atlas), the largest butterfly/moth in the world. It
comes from the tropical regions of Asia. Image from the 1921 Les insectes agricoles d’époque.
Educational Use Notice
Keibooks of Perryville, Maryland, USA, publisher of the journal, Atlas Poetica : A
Journal of Poetry of Place in Contemporary Tanka, is dedicated to tanka education in
schools and colleges at every level. It is our intention and our policy to facilitate the
use of Atlas Poetica and related materials to the maximum extent feasible by
educators at every level of school and university studies.
Educators, without individually seeking permission from the publisher, may use
Atlas Poetica : A Journal of Poetry of Place in Contemporary 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 effective permission to use Atlas Poetica
as a text or resource for studies. Proper attribution of any excerpt from Atlas Poetica
is required. This statement applies equally to digital resources and print copies of
the journal.
Individual copyrights of poets, authors, artists, etc., published in Atlas Poetica
are their own property and are not meant to be compromised in any way by the
journal’s liberal policy on “Fair Use.” Any educator seeking clarification of our
policy for a particular use may email the Editor of Atlas Poetica, at
[email protected]. We welcome innovative uses of our resources for tanka
education.
Atlas Poetica
Keibooks
P O Box 516
Perryville, MD 21903
<http://AtlasPoetica.org>
Tanka Anthologies from Keibooks
Fire Pearls : Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart. Edited by M. Kei.
ISBN 978-1-4303-0999-4
Language: English
Pages 160
Perfect-bound Paperback
6.0” wide × 9.0” tall
Price: $14.95 (US)
Fire Pearls, Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart, features all aspects of the human
heart. Fifty poets run the gamut of emotion from laughter to grief, anger, jealousy, joy,
delight, and more. All the poems are short five-line stanzas: tanka, kyoka, cinquains, and
free verse, yet the poets of Fire Pearls can pack an entire lifetime into a single intense
poem. Arranged by season, including a ‘fifth season,’ Fire Pearls is sure to delight romantics
and curmudgeons alike.
Catzilla! Tanka, Kyoka, and Gogyohka about Cats. Edited by M. Kei.
ISBN: 978-0-557-53612-2
Language: English
Pages 136
Perfect-bound Paperback
7.5” wide × 7.5” tall
Price: $14.00 (US)
Catzilla! Tanka, Kyoka, and Gogyoka about Cats is an anthology of short five-line poems
about the feline companions in our lives—funny, friendly, or tragic, these short poems are
portraits of cats who share their lives with us.
"Cats are highly evolved, intriguing, mysterious, ruled-by-no-one beings who are also
mischievous bringers of unwanted gifts. Cats off to M. Kei for bringing us a collection of
tanka that tears at our heartstrings one moment and has us giggling the next." —Alexis
Rotella, author of Black Jack Judy and the Crisco Kids

Atlas Poetica 8

Transcription

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