Kindred Spirits, A Linked Tanka Sequence Video, November 2020

It was my honour to be invited to write a tanka sequence with the esteemed poet, an'ya. She has created a video of our sequence, with accompanying music by Richard St. Clair, at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCEKDNfvXaM&feature=youtu.be

My work appears in italics below...

of kindred spirits

far apart
but soulful singing
keeps us close
sisters of the salt
on pendulum tides

I dreamt
the oracle of oceans
left your voice
inside an empty shell
for me to find at dawn

a sailor's sky
making the briny blue
palette purple
you are my second self
an ama freediver

kindred spirits
we take flight below
the waterline
bodies like quicksilver
among shoals of herring

november gale
mother mary's petrels
seeking shelter
we travel side by side
reflections in the surf

burnished
by pelagic winds
our bones
come to rest at day's end
upon each other's shores

Atlas Poetica, Number 37, 2019

Atlas Poetica, Number 40, 2020

pistil and stamen


evening wind
heavy with the perfume
of sweet peas
we are tendrils clinging
to each other's heart

sunflowers
from a market stall
we warm
ourselves with memories
of happier times

I shower
you with petals
this ceremony
the simple hallmark
of mourning

my garden
is wizened now
but soon
it will be plump
and ripe with snow

Atlas Poetica, Number 39, 2019

leaving


when death
calls me home
let it be
while I lie with you
in the wilderlands

I surrender
myself to mystery
believing
that something immutable
waits beyond my ken

Atlas Poetica, Number 38, 2019

tanka sequence:


plainsong


taking lunch
to father in the field
we wend
our way through grain
and grasshopper song

w a i t i n g
for the hail to pass
hunkered down
between bales of hay
sisters holding hands

thunderclaps
ricochet across
the prairie
our singing lost
to wind and rain

a rainbow
arcs above our barn
scudding clouds
chase us toward the lilt
of grandmother's voice

Atlas Poetica Special Feature, August 2019

Death Poems


bind my body
with spanworm silk
lay me down
in a shaded garden
until I turn to earth

Atlas Poetica, Number 37, 2019

Patricia Prime of New Zealand has written a lovely review of Three-Part Harmony: Tanka Verses for this issue. It may be accessed via the "Books and Reviews" page of this blog.

It was my honour to be invited to write a tanka sequence with the esteemed poet, an'ya, for this issue. My work appears in italics...


of kindred spirits

far apart
but soulful singing
keeps us close
sisters of the salt
on pendulum tides

I dreamt
the oracle of oceans
left your voice
inside an empty shell
for me to find at dawn

a sailor's sky
making the briny blue
palette purple
you are my second self
an ama freediver

kindred spirits
we take flight below
the waterline
bodies like quicksilver
among shoals of herring

november gale
mother mary's petrels
seeking shelter
we travel side by side
reflections in the surf

burnished
by pelagic winds
our bones
come to rest at day's end
upon each other's shores

Atlas Poetica, Number 36, February 2019

wintertide

glissading down
steep mountainsides . . .
we are horses
with our snowy tails
streaming in the wind

every year
winter casts its spell . . .
like children,
we are bewitched anew
by the signature of snow


the length of night

yet again,
sleep eludes me . . .
an owl and I
ponder the eternal
question of identity

insomnia . . .
mice at play
inside
the thin walls
of my dreams


girlhood

we brew tea
from the dark leaves
of cat's whiskers
but first, you tickle me
with their stamens

we chase
each other across
cloud shadows,
nothing under our feet
but this prairie sky

we once played
in this tangled garden,
enchanted
by the quiet fireworks
of bergamot and butterflies

Atlas Poetica, Number 35, November 2018

A lovely review of Stacking Stones: An Anthology of Short Sequences (ed. M. Kei) by Charles D. Tarlton.

The following sequence was included in the review:


spectral

in the space
between wakefulness
and dreaming
my sister sings songs
I have yet to write

my dreamscapes
haunted by green spirals
of aurora
these memories of you
conjured out of light

last night
I dreamt of things
fantastical
this morning, my life
so dull and drear

night after night
this recurring dream
the universe
is telling me something
I do not understand


This four-tanka sequence works differently from those discussed above. Here the poet leaps from one tanka to the next, bringing forward always the idea of dreaming. The title, spectral, connotes both a dream or ghostly realm and the spectrum of colors, as in a rainbow or artist's palette. The first tanka finds the poet midway between awake and dreaming, the second takes us into a nostalgic dream with colors, the third contrasts the wonder of the "dreamscape" with the banality of real life, and then we learn it happens every night, leaving the poet to wonder if

the universe
is telling me something
I do not understand

The poem works by gradually revealing more and more of the reality in (behind?) the dream world. In the end the dreams are mildly debunked, ordinary reality and the waking mind seemingly back in charge, but in the last tanka a whole new set of questions appears. Maybe the dreamscape is really about something bigger than the dreamer?

The syllabic form working in these four tanka seems to be a modified version of the S/L/S/L/L pattern, but applied pretty loosely. In the first tanka, the count is 3/5/3/5/5; the second is 2/4/4/5/4; and the fourth is 4/5/4/6/6. Now, all of these indicate a tendency or preference toward some definite tanka structure, some irreverent set of rules that, whatever they are, can be honored in the breach. Perhaps, however, it is no accident that the third stanza is the most pivotal, straddling the dream world and reality. The others are all more loosely conventional, but this one more rudely makes long and short identical, if you will, and keeps everything short.

The sequence spectral is ghostly, with memories caught in the blurred line between present and future, weaving dream-memories where light and image coalesce, and bluntly invoking the harsher waking morning. The poet ends up standing at the edge of that abyss Nietzsche was probably talking about when he wrote:

He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.

—Charles D. Tarlton

Atlas Poetica Special Feature, September 2018

Dream Alchemy


we hold hands
as we fall into sleep,
shared dreams
at the confluence
of our fingertips


Note: Over the course of 42 years of marriage, my husband and I have shared several instances of what we call "mind melds" while we sleep!

Atlas Poetica Special Feature, September 2018

25 Rhyming Kyoka


street dancers
with body-popping pecs
strutting their stuff
like grouse on sunrise treks
luring hens to dusty leks

Atlas Poetica, Number 34, September 2018

cold cases


we avoid
the place in which
they found you
but our thoughts
often take us there

we do not
want to think of you
in this way
but we remember
because we must

(tanka sequence in memory of cousins D and J, murdered five decades apart)

Atlas Poetica, Number 33, July 2018

our canoe
noses through mist . . .
a new day
opens before us
into possibility


an old dory
grounded on a sandbar,
its faded flag
the listless reminder
of my pirate dreams


a yellow leaf
lets go of the tree . . .
she held on
long past the time
for surrender


ancient graves
sink into marshland . . .
the long bones
of our ancestors
wandering, still

Atlas Poetica, Number 32, May 2018

Tanka Sequences


shadows call to me

I walk
into the break of day
accompanied
by sparrowsong
and your shadow

slanted light
caresses the ruins
at eventide
shadows call to me,
but I do not answer


the dark side

a portent
of dangerous times
anvil clouds
press the setting sun
under water

rainbow flares
of nacreous clouds
we are
easily seduced
by the dark side of beauty


nothing

farm auction . . .
we have nothing
left to lose
except these thistles
rooted in our hearts

rumours echoed
through the streets
of our town
nothing to do but run
and we are running, still


the surest way

water reeds
trail from the paddles
of a bull moose
it is moments like this
that make me whole

pawprints
of spirit bears lead me
to water
following a river
is the surest way home


Individual Kyoka

ladies who lunch . . .
two white-tailed deer
daintily sample
the fresh salad bar
in my garden cafe


Individual Tanka

you who were
made of brilliance
thank you
for the theory
of everything

(for Stephen Hawking)

Atlas Poetica, Number 31, January 2018

dancing solo


a birds's nest
bound with spidersilk . . .
nothing
to hold us together
after the young had flown

afterthoughts
blacker than our last
conversation . . .
the skeletal remains
of ancient forests

the stings
of a thousand wasps . . .
some betrayals
grow more venomous
with passing years

unsettled . . .
old arguments
sagging
in the cloudbursts
of my mind

leaves spin
against autumn skies . . .
I reflect
on all the times
you refused to dance

Atlas Poetica Special Feature, January 2018

25 Tanka about Arthropods


a hammock
of tent caterpillars
sags with dew . . .
our differing opinions
on the nature of beauty

Atlas Poetica, Number 30, November 2017

Luminosity


cloudberries
float above moss stars . . .
amber beacons
in forest shadows
call us to taste the light

the shimmer
of diamonds on snow
and water . . .
sometimes we take
small gifts for granted

mudlarks . . .
everything we buried
as children
surfaces at last
into the light of day

in her eyes
deep wells of pain . . .
and yet,
glimmers of light
at the bottom

Atlas Poetica, Number 29, August 2017

Individual Cherita:

in our courtyard

the dead snag
has silvered with age

we still hear
faint echoes of birds,
but have forgotten how to sing


you lift me up

from this vantage point
I can see

a parallel universe,
in which the only truth
is mercy


Tanka Sequence:

Reaping

the highway
smothered with ashes . . .
every year,
this debate between
urbanites and farmers

city allotments,
each marked by fencing . . .
when did we start
being afraid of strangers,
being afraid to share

greening . . .
even arctic foxes
build gardens—
with one seed at a time,
could we not feed the world


Individual Tanka:

clouds break
against desert peaks . . .
shards fall
into the open mouths
of thirsty children


beyond
this inner darkness,
snowlight
erases the stains
on my conscience


bullets of crows
on gunmetal nights . . .
a deeper shade
of anguish echoes
in her bones


nothing
but cold comfort
in knowing
that the sea you loved
now spirits you away

Atlas Poetica, Number 28, June 2017

Ryuka Sequence:


Calamus


butterfly sang
the high descant to his tenor . . .
after he clipped her wings,
only sorrow on her tongue

last night I dreamed
you were perched upon my shoulder . . .
today, this feather
as dark as your eyes

Atlas Poetica, Number 27, April 2017

Cherita Sequence:


her name was cherita


the street awakens

another tribe of wanderers
home, a word long since forgotten

in a shabby black coat
she claims to be descended
from a long line of crows


her hands flutter

two migratory birds
that have gone astray

the world, too harsh
to be a safe haven
for accidentals


paper-thin body

this pale skeleton
of the bird I once knew

those pinioned feathers
never had a chance to carry her
too close to the sun


broken-backed prairie

where the wild things are blown
when their roots are severed

uncaged at last,
she joins the waiting flock
that always knew her name


Single Cherita:


lightning storm

a shadow
runs for shelter

I still see you,
sparks flying
from your fingertips



scimitar moon

never enough light
to capture your curves

photographs of you,
the negative spaces
between us



I am not who I was

with each season
comes a deeper sorrow

the stones I carry
so round and blue
might have been your eyes

Atlas Poetica, Number 26, October 2016

inscriptions
etched on roadside cliffs
permanent
reminders of all that is
impermanent


the pain
of this invisible
disability
today, I choose to wear
a quiet cloak of strength


oceans within
unbounded skies without
somewhere between
hollow feathers and flukes
so many ways to sing


muskmelons
and golden chanterelles
even their names
linger on the palate
of my motherless tongue