Atlas Poetica 3

ATLAS
POETICA
Number 3 Spring 2009
A Journal of Poetry of Place

in Modern English Tanka
ATLAS
POETICA
A Journal of Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka
Number 3 Spring 2009
M. Kei, Editor
ISSN 1939-6465 Print ISSN 1945-8908 Digital
MODERN ENGLISH TANKA PRESS
Post Office Box 43717
Baltimore, Maryland 21236 USA
www.modernenglishtankapress.com
publisher@modernenglishtankapress.com
Atlas Poetica : A Journal of Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka

Number 3 - Spring 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Modern English Tanka Press.
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 Modern English Tanka, a biannual print
journal, is dedicated to publishing and promoting fine poetry of place in modern English
tanka (including variant forms of tanka). 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 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.
Send all submissions to: submissions@atlaspoetica.com

Editorial Address: mkei@atlaspoetica.com
Atlas Poetica : A Journal of Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka

Number 3 - Spring 2009
Published by
MODERN ENGLISH TANKA PRESS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 2009.
Print Edition ISSN 1939-6465

Digital Edition ISSN 1945-8908 [PDF & HTML versions]
www.atlaspoetica.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Editorial Legs of Invisible Desire, M. Kei........ 25

You Can't Take a Bus Up a Cliff, In de Oostertuin genietend van
M. Kei..........................................7 chrysanten / Enjoying
Chrysanthemums in the Eastern
Tanka in Sets and Sequences Garden, Paul Mercken ............. 26
Old Memories in the Valley of the Sun, Entrance and Exit, Terra Martin....... 27
John Daleiden............................. 8 Rewinding Fort William,
On the Beach, Marje A. Dyck........... 9 Guy Simser.................................28
Sky Walker, Mary Mageau ................. 9 Short Flashbacks of a Long-Ago Trip to
Understanding the Patient, The Philippines, Ella
Kirsty Karkow............................ 10 Wagemakers ......................... 29
The Black Straw Hat, Patricia Prime 11 On a Beach at Polillo Island, Ella
generations, Owen Bullock............. 11 Wagemakers .............................. 29
Vecernie / Vespers, Vasile Moldovan12 remembering Do's and Dont's,
war rubble, stanley pelter................13 stanley pelter..............................30
Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the surviving the Shadow,
Congo, Paul Mercken................ 14 stanley pelter..............................31
Midday Lunch, Michele L. Harvey.. 14
Seamen's Bethel, Jeffrey Woodward 15 Topical Tanka
Pre-Holocaust: Growing Up in War and Peace.................................32
Cleveland, Sanford Goldstein .... 16 Mourning......................................... 34
Along the Way, Bob Lucky.............. 18 Urban.............................................. 36
I Follow Your Course, Alexej von Summer........................................... 38
Glasenapp ................................. 19
Winter in de Gambia / Winter in Individual Tanka................................... 39
Gambia, Paul Mercken.............. 19
Middle Lake, Sasakatchewan, Angela Book Reviews
Leuck........................................ 20 Cicada Forest, by Mariko Kitakubo 59
Lost and Found, Terra Martin.......... 21
Tor House, Jeffrey Woodward......... 22 Announcements................................... 61
Death in the Afternoon, Bob Lucky.. 23
Imagining the Space, Owen Bullock23 Biographies..................................... 70
Gippsland waters, Jo McInerney..... 24
Lime Tree, Magdalena Dale............. 25 Index....................................................73
You Can't Take a Bus Up a Cliff
Atlas Poetica : A Journal of Poetry of to this cricket song." For Amelia Fielden
Place was founded to provide a home for "ten dolphins" become a nursery song right
tanka that could not easily be published in before her eyes.
the mainstream journals. It publishes long, The poets of Atlas Poetica call things by
including extremely long sequences, tanka their real names. They write about real
prose, multiple author works, experimental places, real events, real issues, real people.
works, and content that demands more of The poetic imagination is unleashed by the
the reader than the comfortable challenge of telling the unnoticed truth.
sentimentality the characterizes much of Stereotypes and conventions, knee jerk
modern tanka in English. reactions and travel guide advertisements
Through the medium of place the poets do not do justice to the complexity of our
in the current issue tackle difficult topics, lives or the places in which we live. By
such as war, crime, racism, xenophobia, grappling with reality poets are forced to
anti-Semitism, poverty, environmentalism, dig deep into themselves. They must bear
adoption, and more. These are topics that witness to all that they have seen—for
make up only a small portion of the good or ill. The 'controlled ambiguity' that
published ouvre of tanka in English, yet is a hallmark of tanka includes moral
they are vitality important, bringing us ambiguity. They reach deep into the
some of the most wrenching and human soul and pull out something of
demanding works of literature in the lasting value, something that inhabits the
canon. mysterious wilderness deep inside our
In describing his military training hearts.
during WWII when Americans are fighting You cannot take a bus to scale the cliffs
to end Nazism, Sanford Goldstein is still of history. You must pull yourself up with
frightened that his comrades in arms might your own hands, bark your knees on the
"shoot this “dirty-jew” me." Ella rocks, and take the risk of falling. The
Wagemakers presents the other side of poets of Atlas Poetica have abandoned
Amsterdam's famed liberalism when she comfort in the quest for truth, and what
tells her children "the women are selling / they have discovered is wondrous,
beachwear and lingerie." Kirsty Karkow frightening, and inspiring.
promises a friend afraid of HIV "to go with
her / to the inner city clinic." ~K~
Yet amidst the terrors of the real world,
there are pleasures and sustenance for the M. Kei
soul. John Daleiden celebrates "our burden Editor, Atlas Poetica
lightened / my sisters and brothers" in
honor of Junteenth, the anniversary of the Gosses Bluff. 142 millions years ago an asteroid
or comet slammed into what is now the Missionary
emancipation of the slaves in the United
Plains in Australia's Northern Territory, forming a
States. Vasile Moldavan takes heart from crater 24 km in diameter and 5 km deep.
the song of a cricket and begs his minister, Cover Image courtesy of USGS National Center
"give up the vespers service [. . .] to listen for EROS and NASA Landsat Project Science Office
Atlas Poetica • Issue 3 • Page 7

Old Memories in the Valley of the Sun
John Daleiden
Sultry night— air conditioned—

over Estrella Mountain a John Deere tractor lumbers
a full moon through the cotton field;
my passionate longing gran’pa and gran’ma picked
like the drenching monsoon those fields by hand in three days
echoes remembered— Aunt Jemima

a dusty country road, without her bandana—
an old horse corral; little Missie Jaycinda,
in irrigation ditches I hardly know you now
the children laugh and splash without pigtails and braids
Yucca blooms in place of the fields

bent to the torrid sand rows of red tiled rooftops—
from mountain shadows a jammed-up freeway;
ancient sounds of the past only the distant mountains,
borne on obscuring dust stark, empty against the sky
from the window our burden lightened

of Santa Maria School— my sisters and brothers—
cotton fields junteenth
stark green and white rows for some, the curious shackles
against distant mountain peaks a bleak museum exhibit
~California, USA
“Buenos días—“
the voices of children
on the playground;
alone among so many
my brown skin different than theirs

On the Beach Sky Walker
Marje A. Dyck Mary Mageau
the beach O’Reilly’s aerial walkway stretches high

has a story above the rainforest. A signpost cautions,
that waves obliterate— ‘Only two persons at a time permitted on
this fresh page the third section.’ My partner, a strong
of shining sand climber, takes the lead. We watch the first
tree tops come into view then fall away.
birds and foxes ‘Let’s take a break,’ I call minutes later. We
have marked my spot stop to rest, pausing for a cold drink before
the place I write we press on.
on this long
empty beach with a flash
of colour
after days in the city the parrot that startles us
the flies disappears
on this quiet beach with the forest floor
seem a
trivial nuisance Near the end of our climb the sky walk
sways with each gust. My hands ache from
persistance clutching the guide rail ropes as I glance
is eight hairy legs- through gaps in the boards under my feet.
like fatal attraction We reach the last viewing platform out of
to this checkered breath and gaze over the Lamington
beach blanket Mountains at the open sky.
out of the woods high above

a sip of water an eagle
flicks her tail surfs the thermal waves—
back into gliding gracefully
the bush winging free
small beach fire

burns low
how the years
have brought me
so quickly to this day
~Saskatchewan, Canada

Understanding the Patient
Kirsty Karkow
tenements used in court

loom tall and gray simple!crayon!pictures!
in!the city drawn by!a!child
a health team struggles daily all too!vivid!evidence!
with the!darkness of distrust of!his!mother's murder
where does a home health aide

a doctor start to help? connects with!her patient
the littered street as she listens
health and social issues the!emigrant's!blood pressure
piled behind!each!door drops by thirty points
a lonely widow while children play

sees!and knows too much my new!friend whispers
who can she!trust? fears of HIV
those who sell burned down the promise to!go with her
the house of one who told to the inner!city clinic
a car backfires bowling spares

she pulls the curtains by himself each night
even tighter he cheers loudly
impatient for the!woman to!fight the!loneliness
bringing meals on wheels of!a!crowded city
fresh samples all shadows lost

from an urban stream to!the!jailhouse lights
the scientist a watchman
has concerns with!aging pipes gives up his search
and waste water systems for Orion's belt
~Baltimore, Maryland, USA

a stunted pear tree
screens!the concrete bench
where women meet
talk turns to fears for!those!
who have no friends in town
A t l a s P o e t i c a • I s s u e 3 • P a g e 10
The Black Straw Hat generations
Patricia Prime! Owen Bullock
“ . . . dressed completely in black, with a Granfer drew cartoons

dreadful shiny black straw hat on her when he got sick
head.! She said the hat gave her courage.! with diabetes
It had cost us all our spare pennies.”! & Gran went to Chapel
to listen to the Preacher
it’s a dream
standing here in search father sat
of a lost era in the fowl’s house
among a dead in the autumn
woman’s possessions! & mother went shopping
for bargains at the op shop
Emptied of everything except a few
mementos and sticks of furniture, the I learnt to write
brittle shell of Katherine Mansfield’s house through the gloom
shivers in winter sunshine. The kauri of the bush shack
boards underfoot.! Windows chatter like you baked bread rolls
teeth.! And we are the sole visitors to this & thought about another man
vacancy.! Outside, the wind offers its own
leitmotif as it whispers through the ~Cornwall, UK & New Zealand
branches of ancient oaks.! Unfazed, we
pore over old letters, notebooks, a lock of
shining chestnut hair, a sampler, the brass
crocodile nutcracker and French crystal
perfume bottles.!
she was her own artist

in black
a sensual catalyst
surprised to say the least
what black meant to her!
a slight breath
is all that holds her here,
a keepsake anchor
for the little life
expressed in words!
~Auckland, New Zealand
Vecernie / Vespers
Vasile Moldovan
Ziua tuturor sfin!ilor-

un greier !inând isonul
popii în altar; Dup" plecarea
!ârâitul lui mai tare enoria#ilor- biserica goal",
decât corul bisericii dar pe clopotni!"
atâtea ciori disputându-#i
All Saints' Day— cel mai bun loc de pe cruce
a lost cricket accompanying
the priest in altar; After the flock's
his chirping was heard departure — the empty church,
louder than the church chorus but on its spire
so many chirpy crows claiming
the best place on a cross
Te rog, p"rinte
opre#te pentru-o clip" ~Bucharest, Romania
vecernia
s" ascult"m cântul de greier
în lini#tea înser"rii
Father, please
give up the vespers service
for a moment
to listen to this cricket song
in the stillness of the even
Sfâr#itul slujbei-
fumul lumân"rilor înnegrind
toate icoanele,
dar fe!ele oamenilor
atât de surâz"toare
End of prayer—
the candles' smoke blackening
all the icons,
but the people's faces
are so smiling
war rubble
stanley pelter
firework sky
splinters shapes
of a peregine falcon dive
no camouflage
in any white field
Twisted and smoke layered His charred tears land on

she is war rubble. splintered wood.
sweet eyed girl

pins butterflies to a card
impassive face
bears scars
of a volcano
~Newark, England
Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo
Paul Mercken
washing and bathing

is dit een masker? under the eyes of Tintin
nee, onbewogen is dit and Lucky Luke
een Bantoegelaat behind those rapids again
maak je maar kwaad, blanke man, a capital, Brazzaville
wij vouwen dubbel van pret
~Bunnik, The Netherlands
is this a mask?
no, unmoved it is
a Bantu face
just be furious, white man,
we roll over laughing
wat is er gaande
achter de brede waaier
Midday Lunch
van de koningspalm?
een Salesiaan geeft les Michele L. Harvey
aan de straatjeugd van de stad
midday lunch
qu’est ce qui se passe in a bustling city park
derrière le vaste éventail below chinatown
du palmier royal? between knotted roots
un Salésien instruit the dimpled dens of rats
la jeunesse de la rue
he took me
what is happening to a faceless city block
behind the giant fan devoid of trees
of the royal palm? there, he said,
a Don Bosco priest teaches we shall build a little nest
youngsters from the city streets and call it home
just we two
onder de ogen at the reception
van Tintin en Lucky Luke in a diner
wassen en baden on that first day of spring
achter die stroomversnelling just outside city hall
nog een hoofdstad, Brazzaville
~Manhattan, New York, USA
Seamen’s Bethel, New Bedford
Jeffrey Woodward
the boys would have grog The light of this world for a time is dipped with
and mealy hardtack, mother, whalers in the blood of their prey, the flesh
and are gone a-sailin’, and harpoon together cleansed. Ego non
the boys for grog are gone down baptizo te in nomine patris—how cleverly
to the hold with the captain Melville put a sinner’s Latin in the mouth of his
mad captain!—sed in nomine diaboli . . . . The
That rasping shanty of a drunken nor’easter wick in the oil lamp gutters.
comes and goes briefly to come, again, and
rattle the panes in this chapel with stammering would he send me
sleet. a fin of that Whale
! on the devil’s tines
Why did I come here? Perhaps, as Melville forged in a hail of sparks
once did, for a respite from December’s bitter yet raw from snout to tail
weather. Thirty-one cenotaphs on the wall
name and number the men who did not dock, Melville has, yes, and does. The winter light of
again, at this port—an Icarus who fell New England is constant and pewter on the
headlong from topmast to deck, a Jonah who panes. I rise to take my leave but the thirty-one
paled as a shark’s morsel, a Joseph somehow tablets stay, the winding-sheet of the wind
lost by his seafaring brethren. A ship’s log unraveling below in the harbor.
preserved each of their names, though their
bodies it could not. I’ve sat in his pew, then,
not unpredictably far
thirty-one tablets back from the pulpit . . .
of stone on the wall I shut the chapel door, sleet
and what then? what on the cobbles of Johnny Cake Hill
then should one tablet
happen to fall? (Herman Melville, Moby-Dick, Chapter 6: But in
New Bedford . . .)
But in New Bedford, Melville wrote, actual .
cannibals stand chatting at street corners; (Melville, op. cit., Chapter 113: Ego non
savages outright; many of whom yet carry on baptizo . . .)
their bones unholy flesh. It makes a stranger .
(Melville to Nathaniel Hawthorne, June 29, 1851:
stare.
Shall I send you a fin of the Whale by way of a
specimen mouthful? The tail is not yet cooked—
Yes, that it would, without question. The though the hell-fire in which the whole book is
Quaker merchants, too, fretted over the souls broiled might not unreasonably have cooked it all
of sailors who’d snuggle up with a fifth in a ere this. This is the book's motto (the secret one),
local brothel and founded, after gnawing on —Ego non baptiso te in nomine—but make out the
that bone, the New Bedford Port Society for rest yourself.)
the Moral Improvement of Seamen. Hence,
this salt-cured and seasick chapel.
Pre-Holocaust: Growing up in Cleveland
Sanford Goldstein
I imagine a Sunday night supper,

the painful circumcision cry rye bread with corned beef
I made decades ago, and a pickle,
that honed razor-sharp knife I did not say Jewish food,
held in a synagogue hand only mother's potato salad
how in kindergarten after a day at school

I loved the colored strips of paper it was to study Hebrew
pasted into circles that I rushed,
as if worlds could be put up we sometimes laughed at the man
with joyous ease and freedom with his long black beard and curls
recalling Christmas once coming home

at my elementary school in darkness after studying
when carols were sung— Moses in a basket,
a Jewish friend told me to shape I saw a man rush from a store
my mouth as if I were saying Christ as if chasing me and I ran
once in sixth grade at Hebrew school

excited about seeing a play hearing about manna
at the high school, during the Exodus,
my teacher knuckled my head, I asked the old teacher if we could
telling me to settle down imagine the taste of lemon pie
just about everyone the depression

on my Cleveland east-side street I knew it was in my early
was Jewish, years and after,
and still, not once did I and still how precious
ever hear the word ghetto that fifteen-cent ice cream soda
such joy carrying Negro the good word

a big empty milk bottle, we used in those early days,
twenty-cents in hand, I remember the kind man
my mother warning me not to spill who lived with his white wife
the bubbly chocolate phosphate next to my grandmother's house
Goldstein, cont.
once at a drugstore once

looking for a Superman on a dirty wall in a gas station
comic book, latrine
by me a man asking another, scrawled in large red letters:
did you jew-him down? jew-women good at it
I did not know then a newsboy I was,

that "to jew down" was delivering the war to
a common term— Jewish neighbors:
not once to my English teacher how I yearned for
questions about that strange verb Finland to beat the Russians
in the synagogue in the newsreels

I heard some of the old-timers at the exciting!Saturday
tell the Cantor to be faster, matinee,
and still that pure strong voice a distant fear in those neat rows
was the only other-world I felt of marching German soldiers
ignorant we were, Hitler,

we Jewish kids even in smug with triumph
high school— in Paris,
no one ever told us and my adolescent fear
Christ was a Jewish messiah cringing over popcorn
at summer camp no one warned me

I used the leather phalacteries that I would be hounded
in a morning-prayer rush, by revenge-seekers,
embarrassed before kids unwritten signs in places
in my tent out only for fun I stood in front of
my aunt said no Crucifixion

this and that were sins did I hear of in those
and I listened; early years,
later I felt I was a sinner elders said we were sinners,
while I lay in bed, hands clasped Atonement Day made us pure
to eat pork they came rushing to get

I was told as a kid freshmen to their frat lunch,
was not kosher, those tidy seniors in blue,
and still our meals at the Chinese, I was grabbed and went and heard
delicious egg rolls and chow mein the hymn to their three-person'd God
!
~Goldstein, cont.
asked
Along the Way
to attend a midnight mass,
I went, Bob Lucky
how vivid and deep and sonorous
the words I could not know because our son is sleeping in late we
drive into town because of a detour on
at times Xihu Da Dao we get lost because we get
young people came lost we walk up a hill because we walk up
to our door a hill we come across a Kuan Yin temple
and I let them in because we have to get down we decide
to speak about faith to take another path because we take a
different path we find a Uyghur stall
naive in Cleveland, selling flatbread stuffed with onions and
I never once thought anyone unidentifiable spices piquant and sweet
would say I killed Christ
until a soldier in my army platoon long metal tongs
bruised my ears on a full-pack march remove a flatbread
from the tandoor—
during maneuvers handing over a few coins
I too threw a window grenade I singe the hair on my arm
I knifed a straw figure:
my one fear was that someone squatting
would shoot this "dirty-jew" me before a plastic tub
full of dead sparrows
~Cleveland, Ohio, United States an old man laughs at me
while I wave the bread to cool it
because we can’t remember where we

parked the car we chew slowly
~Hangzhou, China
I follow Your Course Winter in de Gambia /
Winter in Gambia
Alexej von Glasenapp
Paul Mercken
The glance you shed
I followed its course
advent of a breeze— in de ochtendmist
curving mighty dunes visserbootsilhouetten
embracing the ocean op de pier een kat
zacht glijden op het water
Each day I listened prauwen vogelliefhebbers
timbres of your sound—
joyous tambourine
sullen violin in the morning fog
my hypnotic drum fishing boat silhouettes
on the pier a cat
Your laughter echoed softly glide on the water
spread by candlelight canoes full of bird watchers
cascaded in falls
rushed my veins
trembled my senses in de baobab
zit een reuzenijsvogel
~Giessen, Germany hoog cirkelen gieren
overal waar de bus stopt!
duiken er kinderen op
in the baobab
sits a giant kingfisher
vultures circle high
every time the bus stops
children pop up from nowhere
~Gambia
Middle Lake, Saskatchewan
Angela Leuck
alone for the first time passing a rock pile

in decades!! I come at the edge
to this prairie house— of a field—
black flies batter against windows you are the memory
now that summer's gone I put to one side
grain elevators on the street

torn down !!railway lines of widows and widowers
abandoned the energy in their voices—
my inner landscape, too people who know the land
has changed for what it can grow
at The Lucky Dollar in the country cemetery

with my milk and single lemon a simple stone with the words
a good natured farm boy "A Winter Baby"—
lets me go ahead even after frost
at the cash the sweet pea blooms
Main Street on the edge of town

a small prairie town's a row of evergreens
false fronts— to block the wind—
I'd be lying if I said my list of friends
I wasn't looking for love has grown!thin
the smell of smoke after the leaves

from stubble fields have fallen! a wasp's nest
this autumn exposed—
I am burning the clarity that comes
burning from this time alone
standing on the spot in the regional park

where grain elevators once rose— benches and picnic tables
even after years covered with ice
I am still I have come here
in your shadow in the coldest season
~Leuck, cont. Lost and Found
two deer Terra Martin

walking slowly
through the field
opposite the house— Half-buried, a tiny glitter catches my
the line we never cross attention. I loosen sand and debris, then
scoop up my briny treasure—a pair of
in the middle earrings.
of a dried up slough
explaining In the cove I rinse them several times. They
to the cattails are solid gold. The workmanship on the
why I am here filigree is exquisite and the design of moon
and star reminiscent of the Art Deco
a small rise period.
in a farmer's field--
in this land of the living skies Twirling them in my fingers I gaze as their
I no longer need a mountain rainbow reflection bounces here and
on which to stand there.
~Middle Lake, Saskatchewan, Canada short of

dropping the moon
in your lap
would you settle
for a falling star
in your
universe I become
a shimmering canyon
vast and yet
unapproachable
suspended
between moon and stars
the remnants
of you and me
drifting, drifting
~Toronto, Canada
Tor House
Jeffrey Woodward
You coveted a savage beauty and settled I, too, regard

on this headland. Insisting that man will be the red-tail hawk and watch
blotted out, the blithe earth die, you in the sunset where
gathered granite from the cove below, above your sea-battered cliff
placed stone on stone, built a refuge with he rides the wind alone
your hands from the vanity and violence of
man’s numbers, man’s progress. Though
you were well aware that go, then, with the grain
of this, your granite—
I see you there, a child
The square-limbed Roman letters of the wind, of the tide . . .
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain and brother to a stone
you praised this coast in poems, you loved (Robinson Jeffers, "To the Stone-cutters," in Tamar &
a woman and here raised two sons, Other Poems (1924): Man will be blotted out . . .
and The square-limbed Roman letters . . .)
foreordained, like all flesh, to oblivion. Or
so your stubborn eloquence would have it. (Robinson Jeffers, "Carmel Point," in Hungerfield &
Other Poems (1954): an unbroken field of poppy
Before your death, you witnessed this and lupin . . .)
granite perch being hedged by others’
houses and lamented your loss of an
unbroken field of poppy and lupin. Even
so, these pilgrims that you living
sometimes pitied, sometimes despised,
they come now to marvel at your
handiwork, even now to rest their hands
upon your stone.
not far from the house

I find the wind-worn
Monterey cypress
did you plant this twisted one,
this gaunt one, this evergreen
Death in the Afternoon imagining the space
Bob Lucky Owen Bullock
The way the light from the setting sun it’s about
comes through the glass door and spills finding everything
across the marble floor of the lobby would but not all at once
be comfort enough if not for the body of a rain slides down
dead fly ripping into the light and lying in the physicist’s window
the puddle of its shadow. I sweep it aside !
with my shoe before the crowd behind me she is alone
tramples it underfoot. in that barn
looking for
sinking lower the boundaries of art
into the worn sofa— & where the ants come in
doctor’s waiting room !
the face of a clock reflected if I work hard enough
in the TV’s dark screen I may give up
this broom
~Hangzhou, China for a clip-board
& a lunch break
!
the real problem
is reducing the calls;
she still thinks
he should be fair
even in the lawyer’s office
~New Zealand
Gippsland waters1 Ninety Mile Beach5 . . .
who would seek to measure
Jo McInerney the wind
the sky, the furrowed water
reaching to world’s end
silt jetties
at Eagle Point Bluff ~southeast Victoria, Australia
the Mitchell’s
alpine springs now sift
through Lake King’s fingers !
over slow water 1.! Gippsland is a region in south-eastern

a dragonfly’s flickering Victoria.!Victoria is a south-eastern state of
florescence Australia. The Gippsland Lakes are a
network of lakes, marshes and lagoons in
east Gippsland covering an area of about
Tambo River 600 sq kms. The largest of the lakes are
cormorants spread drying wings Lake Wellington, Lake King and Lake
as our wake Victoria. They are fed by the Avon,
laps rock and stirs rushes Thomson, Latrobe, Mitchell, Nicholson
long afternoon’s procession and Tambo rivers.
!
2.! Sperm Whale Head is a large spit of
pumping for sand worm land projecting into Lake Victoria.
torches of old fishermen !
bob in the dark 3.! The Southern Ocean, also known as the
Great Southern Ocean, comprises the
Sperm Whale Head2 . . . southernmost waters of the World Ocean
south of 60° S latitude.
our young love had us
!
rocking offshore 4.! Lakes Entrance is a tourist resort and
in each other’s arms fishing port in eastern Victoria on a
drifting under stars naturally occurring channel connecting the
Gippsland Lakes to the Bass Strait.! Bass
two pelicans Strait gives into the Southern Ocean.
!
waddle along the pier
5.! Ninety Mile Beach starts at Seaspray
off season evening and continues until Lakes Entrance. The
beach is made up of long sandy dunes
doors which separate the various lakes and
should open out not in lagoons from the Southern Ocean.
the Southern Ocean3
beckons beyond Lakes Entrance4
I look toward wild water
cold and deep

currents run from sand
to ice
Lime Tree Legs of Invisible Desire
Magdalena Dale M. Kei
Day dreaming in the mud

the taste of the tea next to the asphalt,
on your lips a broken doll’s head,
this fragrance of lime a crow pecking
between you and me at plastic eyes
Chilly wind derelict memory,

on my windowsill a broken watch washed up
a sere lime leaf . . . on a muddy beach
I! wait uselessly next to the orange foot
to hear again your steps of a Canada goose
A! passerby walking the street

together with the wind with legs of invisible desire,
at your window . . . looking in windows
a lime tree shining at the people for sale
in the soft moon light but I have no money
A lime tree without an audience,

try to find its place the poet’s heart has no meter,
among moonbeams ears give voice
like my yearning to the red paper
looking for you brushing along the ground
~Elkton, Maryland, USA

~Bucharest, Romania
In de Oostertuin genietend van chrysanten * / Enjoying
Chrysanthemums in the Eastern Garden
Paul Mercken
Hoe belandde ik, Geleid door lusten,

een eenzame bejaarde, kende ik bij ’t zien van wijn
in de oude tuin, geen tijd en geen maat.
waarin! de najaarsgrassen Toen was ik al opgetogen
alles overwoekeren? voordat ik had gedronken.
How did I arrive, Desire directing,

a lonely elderly man, at perceiving wine I knew
in the ancient garden, no measure, no time.
where tangled autumn grasses I was already joyous
are infesting everything? before I started drinking.
Wind en dauw zijn kil, De dagen tellen,

de zon is mat, de heesters ’t! genieten! wordt moeilijker.
verlept, gehavend. Schept drank nog vreugde?
Bij de schutting ontluiken De chrysant bloeit, niet voor mij.
slechts enkele chrysanten. Toch voel ik me opgemonterd.!
Wind and dew are cold, The days adding up,

the sun is weak, the thicket pleasure comes less easily.
faded and decayed. Will drink still bring joy?
Only some chrysanthemums The chrysanthemum blossoms
are opening near the fence. but not for me. Yet I’m glad.
Ik neem mijn kruikje * The classic poem by Bai Juyi (Po Tsu-ji),
en ga daar zitten drinken. 813, rewritten by Paul Mercken into a
Voor jullie blijf ik. tanka suite from the Dutch translation of
Nu trekken voor mijn ogen the Chinese original by W. L. Idema, Bai
mijn jongelingsjaren voorbij. Juyi. Gedichten en proza, gekozen,
vertaald en toegelicht, Amsterdam/
Antwerpen: Uitgeverij Atlas, 2001, pp.
I bring my bottle, 228-229:
meaning to have a draught there.
For you guys I stay. Professor Idema's original:
I let the years of my youth
pass before my very eyes. Mijn jonge jaren zijn allang verstreken,
De jaren van mijn bloei zijn nu ook heen:
Hoe ben ik met een hart vol eenzaamheid
Entrance & Exit
Daarbij beland in deze oude tuin?
!!In deze tuin sta ik zo lang, alleen - Terra Martin
De zon is mat en wind en dauw zijn kil.
Het najaarsgras heeft alles overwoekerd,
De fraaie heesters zijn verlept, gehavend.! Ms. Sandler signals to the class from the
!! Er zijn alleen maar enkele chrysanten, piano. "Do, ray, me, faaaah." We begin
Daar bij de schutting, pas voor kort and the door opens.
ontloken.
Ik breng mijn kruik en ga daar zitten Daffodil-colored shoes squeak as she
drinken – enters. Bright purple leggings call attention
Om jullie zal ik hier nog even blijven!! to her pixie-like build. A tangerine top
!! ‘k Herinner me de dagen van mijn under the faded denim jacket is covered
jeugd, with rhinestones. Her purse is an effigy of
Hoe licht ik door mijn lusten werd geleid a foot and half long speckled trout
Want zag ik wijn, ik kende tijd noch maat suspended on a nylon red shoulder strap.
En was al vrolijk voor ik had gedronken.
!! De laatste tijd, sinds ik wat ouder werd, " Oops wrong class," she says. Ms. Sandler
Wordt het me moeilijker om te genieten, sniffs as the door closes.
En takel ik nog verder af, dan vrees ik
Dat mij geen drank nog vreugde brengen
kan. embroidered
!! Maar waarom, vraag ik de chrysanten, cushions, perfectly plumped
bloeien jullie glitzy
Als enige nog in dit laat seizoen? like the compliments
Natuurlijk is dat niet vanwege mij – you throw here, there
Toch voel ik mij door jullie opgemonterd.!
scavenging
Republished with permission. through the sock drawer
my life
dabs of color but
not a pair in sight
once more
that dream of sailing
the indigo sky
above foamy waves
a spray of stardust
~Toronto, Canada
Rewinding Fort William *
Guy Simser
my public school’s now, hanging around

human scale architecture his weathered front porch
shuttered up a whiff
neo-classicism spent of Dutch Amphora; that gift
as am!I, tempus fugit unknown to my children
in our old back lane front yard musing

spring snow-bank melt on the cleft family tree
Oedipus redux one-half buried
in dad’s wet hockey mitt the other half turning
again, my frozen horse bun the colour of autumn
that shameful hole in the nor’wester

in dad’s depression sweater three sparrows close ranks
parsimony! amongst crackling leaves
he said and then left us under my cold, damp feet
to learn at our own peril mother, father, brother
~Fort William, Ontario, Canada

nineteen fifty-two
in dad’s first car (second-hand) * Small town in Northern Western Ontario,
my first love established 1907
and me scared to death
of running out of gas
she’s an east-ender
you’re from west fort street
think about it!
everything, but for that,
is perfect, he said
as a teen, I scoffed
at dad’s thick wool plaid shirt
today, I’d tell him
it suits me to a “T”
if I could
Short Flashbacks of a Long- On a Beach at Polillo Island
Ago Trip to The Philippines
Ella Wagemakers
Ella Wagemakers !
lying lazily
my husband and I
I want on holiday
to show him our lakes eavesdropping as a couple
and volcanoes argue about their affair
the pride in my country
I usually keep hidden on the beach
that same coconut tree
playing tourist with coconuts . . .
in my hometown !!!!! I no longer wait
I rush !!!!! for them to fall
through a blur of older faces
and three native languages my husband
tries his hand
sunshine on at haiku
the pineapple field the English words
a rich harvest with Dutch spellings
back in The Netherlands
they’ll cost "2,39 a tin one day
he wants to retire
at the market on the islands
of one mountain tribe the same ones I left
woven baskets when I married him
a native woman in costume
offers to take my picture ~The Philippines
~The Philippines
remembering Do’s and Don’ts
stanley pelter
alone in the crowd

who walk to his funeral
dream of a poppy!
inside red fires
of a yesterday war
sometimes i think of dad.!!! remember him wearing!!! a silent face.
sometimes i remember his resigned look; re-image others to refill silences of those on the
wrong side of locked doors in a grey gas factory empty even of shadows. sometimes i
remember excitement and acceptance; acceptance of! solutions to ills which might solve
his own. i don’t remember him succumbing to the fatuous, or correspondences to blind
faith. don’t remember him talking about conspiratorial outcomes or remember him
carrying home a book. i do remember ‘hanging is too good’, and the ice-cold anger inside
his stabbed voice. i remember fingering his face, contours of painful survival, detailed
trails spread across maps of extensive carnage.
sometimes, i think of dad. remember him wearing a silent face.
alone on the road

that is a reflection
of his reflection
man-made poppy
angled in water
~Newark, England
surviving the Shadow
stanley pelter
where mountain crags hide in ice
he walks naked
a camp of gas
casts
a concentration of shadows
Here I am, unanchored and with upturned sight, moving on, with mother’s mattress tied
to me and a King James’s bible shredded through a distant grandfather’s mangled journey. An
imposition from another place limps across a pulsing shadow. Trembles ricochet from coal to gas
and echo through a cusp of lime-drenched pits. In adjacent dimensions Babel language tribes
come and go. Rivers solidify in beds of ancient blood, their surfaces, even before sunrise,
simulating mirrors. This may be the day differences are nailed. Who knows? Not ancient blood.
Not that searing light casting Faustian shadows inside urban meltdown. Not anybody. Not
anything. Only time can pan these mushroom sensations into gold.
Today yet another path splits into the mass of tomorrow shadow. Yet another virginal
fusion grasps fission. Each day of each crescent moon night connects and disconnects. Shadows
learn darkness when left to outshine light. Flitting shapes enclose crumpled space and a black so
turgid it tingles spines of even those with the secret of leaking shadows through multi-tasking
showerheads. Here is shadow music that enhances a resounding silence.
strong hint of light

and darkness crumbles
incestuous snakes
slither out of tight
shadow skins
Today breaks the mould. Today is aromatic. Lost in icon-ingested flavours that penetrate
subdued lights of anticipation, his path splits into sparkling emanations. His new smile sheen is
viscous, rich in a translucency that darkly glows into the impalpable aura of blue-black recesses,
like those spacious Japanese temple shadows designed to guide toward variety and mystery and
safety.
Before any light can refute and deny, simply heard vibrations quiver into a taut line.
Carefree, he dances along this tightrope, singing with upturned sight and making such a noise as
befits a person who is a Shadow survivor.
distant shape of geese

rise above their shadow spread
the last cut of grass
covers
a multitude of sins
(written after reading 'in praise of shadows' by Junichiro Tanizaki.)
War and Peace
the sadness bird's eye view

of women wearing burkas of the island
never to know only
the freedom wild birds have migrating flocks
to sing in any tree can stop to rest
~Kirsty Karkow ~Margarita Engle

John Hopkins School of Public Health, Cuba as seen from an airplane
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
a teenage girl
White wicker chair stoned to death
at the edge of the sea . . . for daring to love—
a man in white linen the evening sky
reads Tolstoy, his trousers in full spectrum
rolled over his knees.
~George Swede
~Alexis Rotella Bashika, Iraq
Nice, France
this damn war I’ll write a song for you

lives lost and all that money if I can, my friend
shot to pieces and I’ll pray for you
when it could have done with all the saints
so much good in the world dandelions and crickets
~André Surridge ~Owen Bullock

Iraq New Zealand
during WW1 my friend

German soldiers shelled who has become
Reims cathedral— a recluse
the roof caught fire and gargoyles names the advantages
spat liquid lead of solitude
~André Surridge ~Marje A. Dyck

Reims, France Canada
War and Peace, cont.
his eyes
came back from Iraq
Shangri-La and joined the wall
scent of yak-butter lamps with the eyes
the chant of monks . . . from Vietnam
I am here and not here
awaiting the coming ~M. Kei
Grundy Center, Iowa, USA
~André Surridge,
Shangri-la
in the college corridor,
the faint ululation of
an Arabic prayer . . .
today's news which mirror are the students
of unspeakable deaths looking into?
disappears somewhere
into memory— ~M. Kei
first tomato blooms Harford Community College, Bel Air,
Maryland, USA
~George Swede
Seaton Village, Toronto, Canada
autumn hunt:
way down there in the village
a sinner
demolishing enters the clapboard church:
Mt. Eden Prison God’s got binoculars too?
excavators discover
the remains of six prisoners ~Guy Simser
and a disused railway track Canada
~Patricia Prime
New Zealand summer
and the world at peace . . .
if only
this were the calm
as boys after the storm
they blew on blades of grass
held between thumbs ~André Surridge
now they lie on the battlefield Hamilton, New Zealand
steel between their ribs
~André Surridge
Somme, France
Mourning
At the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem the shallow dip

I watch the tight pants dug at the woodlot's edge
of the American tourist fills with leaves
as she pushes with one longer finger the smell of rot mixed
her prayer into the stone wall. with the bones of a cow
~James Tipton ~Michele L. Harvey

Jerusalem, Israel Hamilton, New York
tour bus she leaves

through green rolling pastures a fistful of daffodils
to Hobbiton on his grave
Frodo and his friends her husband's!favorite flowers
long gone from the garden he once dug
~André Surridge ~Michele L. Harvey

Matamata, New Zealand Hamilton, New York
The long teeth just

of winter newly widowed . . .
hanging from clouds
the eaves . . . rush past the window
You in the spirit world. on the way to nowhere
~Alexis Rotella, ~Michele L. Harvey

Cairnbrook, Pennsylvania, USA Hamilton, New York
Newly-widowed spectator slowing

the neighbor hanging on the 101 freeway,
clothes on the line— I’m late and yet
no more pants even I hesitate
kicking in the wind near the overturned car
~George Swede ~Deborah P Kolodji

Seaton Village, Toronto, Canada Temple City, California, USA
~Mourning, cont. a tree
full of fog,
sealing
although she's dead, the world
the doe's eyes in a silent tomb
still ask me
questions about fate ~M. Kei
and the deeds of men Perryville, Maryland, USA
~M. Kei
Perryville, Maryland, USA !! ! All that remains
a FIRST and LAST NAME

some mould !! ! ! ! ! ! a DATE
from his childhood home a STATEMENT of LOVE
his frat house
and the old apple tree , mixed !! wind borne leaves
in this landscape of graves
~George Swede
~Michele L. Harvey
Old St. Paul's Burying Ground, Halifax,
Hamilton, New York
Canada
lesser now,
the off-chance sight
of a stranger
that wears some piece
of your lost ways
~Michele L. Harvey
New York, USA
that cat
who kept to himself
still slides
around half-seen corners
only my mind can see
~Michele L. Harvey
New York, USA Planned topics for next issue include
winter and kyoka (humor).
Urban
there I was farmers

down in the grass bring him mortar shells
groping from the battlefields—
soon to learn that red ants he recycles them into
had found my glasses first shining bronze coffee machines
~Kirsty Karkow ~André Surridge

Baltimore, Maryland, USA Baghdad, Iraq
city dressed in white cotton

lights glimmering wearing a Gandhi cap
below the dabbawalla
in darkness parted mounts an old bicycle
your open doors laden with tiffin tins
~Joe Christiansen ~André Surridge

Atlanta, Georgia, USA Mumbai, India
As we look at a street map, passing

a Japanese woman approaches the old graveyard
to practice her English children
and to hand us afraid to breathe
a Watch Tower pamphlet. inhaling ghosts
!
~Alexis Rotella ~Margarita Engle
Kyoto, Japan a Southern California small town
And to think Saturday morning—

back in Baltimore a crow
even flower pots picking at
are chained the breadcrumbs of
to window bars. my existence
~Alexis Rotella ~M. Kei

Kyoto, Japan Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, USA
~Urban, cont.
summer walk
sitting on the cold along an avenue of green
marble steps in the porch and shadows
of Britomart we drift closer each step
a posse of students to the edge of!autumn
waiting for the free bus
~Dawn Bruce
~Patricia Prime Art Gallery Road, Sydney, Australia
New Zealand
sleeping
dark city street with the windows open—
the red light the thwack thwack
of an ambulance of the night watchman’s staff
growing larger loud and comforting
growing smaller
~Bob Lucky
~Peggy Heinrich Hangzhou, China
New York City, USA
the garbage truck

new city came early today—
dots on my angry monkeys
coffee cup lid bang an empty can
remind me of and hiss at me
your face
~Bob Lucky
~Rose Hunter Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia!!!
Tlaquepaque, Mexico
Thirty-eight years here a night out

and leaving as the bare trees in swinging Amsterdam
get their new buds— we tell the kids
my steps cautious the women are selling
on the icy campus street beachwear and lingerie
~George Swede ~Ella Wagemakers

Ryerson University, Toronto, Canada Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Summer
ten dolphins beyond the breakers

in a nursery rhyme: aluminum dinghies
two leaping out fishing
three surfing the waves the day’s catch brought to shore
five cruising further out gutted on the beach
~Amelia Fielden ~Patricia Prime

Australia New Zealand
mockingbirds hot summer day

flirting and flitting the sliding screen door
in the parking lot — sticks in mid-track
beige beauties outside, the flash
in the summer sun of a hummingbird
~M. Kei ~Peggy Heinrich,

Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, USA Bridgeport, Connecticut, USA
summer picnic Texas summer

a sudden gust of wind at the height of the season
sends your strawboater not a fig in sight—
cartwheeling into the river my grown-up niece
scattering ducks asks what they look like
~André Surridge ~Bob Lucky

Cambridge, England Houston, Texas, USA
summer orchard summer garden

the territorial overflows in red
bickering i look sideways
of two squirrels at swollen eyes
while I claim deep shade and see only black
~Margarita Engle ~stanley pelter

California's Central Valley United Kingdom
Por ahora
James Tipton su deseo de amarla
es más grande todavía!
Martha Alcántar and Gabriela que el deseo de ella
Ocampo Ocampo, translators de estar enojada.
¿Café de Arbol— For the time being

quien necesita cielo his desire to love
mientras hay todavía is still larger
meseras! hermosas than her desire
en este mundo?! to be angry.
Coffee Tree Café—

who needs Heaven Supe que ella no era para mi
while there are still que es porque permití
beautiful waitresses solo una parte de mi
in this world? seguirla adentro
de su apartamento.
(Previously appeared in El Ojo del Lago, Chalapa, I knew she was not for me
Mexico, November, 2008) which is why I permitted
only part of me
to follow her
(I like to hang out at this popular coffee shop in
into her apartment.
Chapala, Mexico. The women who work there—
Claudia, Clio, and Rocío—are very beautiful. I have
fallen in love with all of them.) (English version previously appeared in El Ojo del
Lago, Chalapa, Mexico, November, 2008)
¿Quieres saber por qué me gusta

No hace mucho tiempo
su no muy extraordinario cuerpo?
dijiste que fui el hombre perfecto.
Porque dentro de ese cuerpo
Ahora que estoy
es otro cuerpo que sólo llega
enamorado de ti
con la noche.
no dices nada.
You want to know why I like
Not so long ago
her rather unremarkable body?
you said I was the perfect man.
Because inside that body
Now that I have fallen
is another body
in love with you
that only comes out at night.
you say nothing.
(Previously appeared in Meretrices, Chalapa,
Mexico, November, 2008) ~Chalapa, Mexico
~Tipton, cont.
Tu preguntas: ¿Como estaba ella
En la Catedral de Lima cuando hizo el amor?
el hombre viejo Esa bahía cálida en Guayabitos
quien ha perdido a su esposa lavando cada pulgada cuadrada
muy fuerte maldice de tu cuerpo.!
Padre, Hijo, y Espíritu Santo.
You ask what she was like
In the Cathedral of Lima when she made love?
the old man That warm bay at Guayabitos
who lost his wife washing over every square inch
loudly curses of your body.
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.!
~near Puerto Vallarta, Mexico
~Lima, Peru
(Guayabitos is a lovely little resort community on
the Pacific coast of southern Mexico, about one
(I was sitting with a rather exquisite young Peruvian
hour north of the far more sophisticated Puerto
lady one afternoon in the Cathedral of Lima—a
Vallarta. I like Guayabitos, which is more popular
huge baroque cathedral that was actually designed
with Mexicans than Americans. The bay is sweet
by Francisco Pizarro who conquered the Incas and
and gentle and very satisfying.)
founded Lima (the chapel was built beginning in
1564). At the main altar, shouting loudly and
shaking his fist at the figure of the suffering Christ,
stood an old man, in worn but mended clothing,
who had recently lost his wife. As two priests En esta alta meseta desierta
approached him, he turned and strode past us de vez en cuando las noches
down the main aisle and then through the huge
doors. His weary face was wet with tears.) son tan claras que cada palabra
dicha en el universo
habla ahora. !
Ella ha vivido junto al Rio San Miguel
tanto tiempo que en la noche
fluye por su corazón. On this high desert mesa
Ahora nunca sabrá ella sometimes the nights
que esta vacio. are so clear that every word
ever spoken in the universe
She’s lived by the San Miguel River speaks!now.
so long that at night
~near Grand Junction, Colorado, USA
it! runs through her heart.
Now she will never know (I lived for almost a decade on a high mesa (7000’)
what emptiness is. in western Colorado, near the Utah border. At night
the moon and the stars were so bright and the
~near Telluride, Colorado, USA mesa was so silent that the silence itself seemed to
become sound.)
(There are many San Miguel Rivers in north
America, but this lovely one is near Telluride in the
mountains of southwestern Colorado.) !
~Tipton, cont. André Surridge
No, no te he ovidado,
y antes de la ultima nevada
te conoceré otra vez
Station Hotel
en el agua caliente
while guests enjoy breakfast
abajo del Paso de la Montaña Roja.!
grey squirrels
in the back courtyard
No, I have not forgotten you,
forage through rubbish bins
and before the last snow
I will!meet you again
~Knaresborough, England
in the hot springs
below Red Mountain Pass.
~near Ouray, Colorado, USA

we board the night tram
(Red Mountain Pass is in southwestern Colorado, along the Golden Mile
above the little mountain town of Ouray, and passengers cheer
popular for its hot springs. The Pass, when covered as the mayor switches on
with snow, is a dangerous one.) Blackpool’s Illuminations
Solo otra vez en esta mesa salvaje ~Blackpool, England
miro estos caballos peludos
enfrentando el invierno largo.
Y tu, encaminandote a Perú,
¿Voy a verte otra vez!?! tea and scones
at Betty’s Café in Harrogate
Alone again on this wild mesa
where my dear
I watch these shaggy horses
little sister, you work
facing the long winter.
your beautiful smile
And you, headed back to Peru,
will I ever see you again?
~Harrogate, England
~near Grand Junction, Colorado, USA
(In western Colorado, near the Utah border, are

several large tracts of wild land set aside for wild Samso
horses.) the eco-friendly carbon-free
Danish island—
their strawberries and potatoes
that much sweeter
~Samso, Denmark
~Surridge, cont.
blues and yellows lunch

of the Swiss Guard’s uniform at the Dirty Duck
are also here baked potato with cheese
on walls and vaulted ceiling half a pint of best bitter
of the Sistine Chapel watching the canal boats
~Vatican City, Italy ~Stratford-on-Avon, England
the freeze starts photograph

over Iceland . . . of Earth from space
dancing oh what a world . . .
in the northern sky, the ghosts when I was a boy I had
of aurora borealis a marble just like it
~Iceland ~Knaresborough, England
chef says forced north

if you visit for unknown reasons
without trying penguins
the chilli crab, you really wash up dead or wounded
haven’t been to Singapore on Brazilian shores
~Singapore ~Brazil
the pond girl meets boy

in my father’s garden boy meets girl
a heritage site— where’s it going to end
once a watering stop when the world’s in a whirl
for the coachman’s horses this blue, blue, blue world
~Shalden, Hampshire, England ~Knaresborough, England
the best ten pounds

I ever spent got me a seat
on an air plane
to these shaky isles
at the bottom of the world
~Hamilton, New Zealand
I keep waiting
Alexis Rotella for little people
to climb out of
My brother who won’t take off his beard—
a day to attend a funeral Bill Higginson.
thinks nothing of !
missing a day ~Haiku Society of America meeting, New
to go on a mushroom hunt. York, USA
~Indiana, Pennsylvania, USA
Shanty town—
wedding at the Central Hotel . . .
On the shoulder
A cigarette burn
of this busy autumn highway,
on the bride’s
an old man
hoop skirt.
on a bike towing home
his wooden canoe.!
~Sagamore, Pennsylvania, USA
~Severna Park, Maryland, USA
Hitchhiker
These stone steps I walk up waving
to see my mother after surgery a milkweed stalk—
the same steps I bet he also
I hurried down writes haiku.
in first grade after mine.
~Fryeburg, Maine, USA
~Windber Hospital, Pennsylvania, USA
At the Shinto shrine

The hummingbird the sumo wrestler
and my mother collide— drops off a pumpkin
“Run for ice” she yells, that no one else
blood running could possibly lift.
from her third eye.
~Kyoto, Japan
~Cairnbrook, Pennsylvania, USA
At the shrine
Amish market— I ask for nothing
on the counter even though
propped among I could use
the fryers, a break.
a baby.
~Kyoto, Japan
~Annapolis, Maryland, USA !
~Rotella, cont.
Trattoria— Driving away

robed monks from city lights . . .
with silver spoons Tonight I will sleep
twirling spaghetti in my childhood bed
around a fork. and listen to the peepers.
~Kyoto, Japan ~Cairnbrook, Pennsylvania, USA
Some women look for Before dusk—

their spouses Mrs. Patrick’s cows
in bars . . . walk up our road . . .
Mine hangs out Their bells jangling,
in the kitchen gadget shop. the sound of home.
~Annapolis, Maryland, USA ~Cairnbrook, Pennsylvania, USA
First refrigerator— On a Bahama Beach

neighbors come to visit my husband says it will be
our Coldspot a long time before he touches fish,
as if it were the PERFECT STORM
a shrine. read cover to cover.
~1949, Cairnbrook, Pennsylvania, USA ~Bahamas
Everyone on this I thank the host

Santa Cruz street for a wonderful party
a Tibetan Buddhist . . . then realize
Yet not one of them I’ve been at
speaks to their neighbors. the wrong house.
~Santa Cruz, California, USA ~Georgetown, Washington, D.C., 1965
The Japanese professor Four star restaurant—

says he’d like to translate in my tossed salad
my book of tanka . . . a tiny caterpillar
It’s not that I don’t believe him, emerges from
just that sake has its own voice. the Thousand Island.
~Kyoto, Japan ~New York City, New York, USA
The door open all day
George Swede yet the fly stays
on the sealed window
much like some among us
The scents of who seek the light
seaweed and salt
the squish of mud . . . ~Ajijic, Mexico
my sense of self
ebbing with the tide
As I clean, new dust
~English Bay, Vancouver spirals in a sunbeam
to settle behind me—
stubborn, the hints!
of our destiny
Just leaf scraps
in the fence corner web ~Ajijic, Mexico
but the hidden spider!
is doing better than I—
the page still blank My dream life
has become more engaging
~Our backyard, Seaton Village, Toronto, than the real one—
Canada the dewdrops on the thorns
hold red roses
~Oyama, British Columbia, Canada

Without the thousands
of hours of intense work
what would I be? Light rain!
The windowsill cat stretches and lingering mist—
and gapes a long yawn it's hard to stop
dreams mingling
~Our backyard, Seaton Village, Toronto, with plans for the day
Canada
~Seaton Village, Toronto, Canada
The Amazon rank A new hand-held gizmo—

for my last book now even fewer will
sunk even deeper— read the poems!
the street lined with bags over which we labor
of fallen leaves and find sustaining joy
~Seaton Village, Toronto, Canada ~Future Shop, Toronto, Canada
!
~Swede, cont. stanley pelter
A movie about
soft body
a family!
in great working order
much like ours . . .
her medusa fuzz
the moon at zenith
makes him break
we talk
many of their rules
~Ajijic, Mexico ~London, England
Desert highway: sand filled air

the pool of water streams across high waves
evaporates as we near— on the blurred beach
like hope examined before gull alarms sound
too closely sea filled shells close!
~Mojave Desert, Nevada ~Isle of Arran, Scotland
Over two-thirds steep dive

of the way to the age of a kittiwake
of one hundred— into a grey sea
the sunset-lit slow eyes
gull's glide see little of it
~Isle of Arran, Scotland

~Newport News, Virginia, USA
ignoring ethics
The body knows more science
than the mind and much else
about many things— the two of us
gazed at from behind face a moonglow night
the woman looks back
~Isle of Arran, Scotland
~Downtown Toronto, Canada
she hides her tooth

under a bloodstained pillow
mum much too tired
to act
the wish fairy
~Newark, England
!
~pelter, cont.
walk through mirrors the blossom

into reflections is almost gone
of reflections from the cherry tree
thoughts morph time to
into smiles get on with things
~Newark, England
ducks
like boats
drifting
towards the night sky
and the past
the rose
is still there
on the stem
pink and fragrant
though the woman has gone
in a shallow swamp
the vast blue sky
reflected
I walk carefully
Owen Bullock to the edge
why am I so sad just when

about her life? everyone seems to
she may be happier want something from me
than most people I know— the branches are bare
the sun glares as it sets on the beeches
I’m showing off again the sight of

in front of a beautiful woman
a female— at the post office
will these urges reminds me
ever fail? to post my letter
~Waihi, New Zealand
do their calls
Amelia Fielden criss-crossing the park
signal the close
two mallards of this winter's day
sail across Green Lake, for the five o'clock birds ?
their wakes
never quite intersecting—
I have friends like that the 373 slows,
instinctively I hail it—
but why,
the train sways I haven't lived at Coogee
with its smell of dust for over forty years
and oranges—
through scratched windows
perfect reflections on a lake high tea once
in an Oxford garden
unshadowed
a snowfall by all the actions
of blossom petals of my adult life
cloaks our driveway—
cries the child "you musn't ~Australia
crush those fairy wings"
no microphone,
the political speakers
outperformed
by a magpie chorus
perched above the dais
little finches
in the camellia bush
stirring green— Guy Simser
'if winter's here,
can spring be far behind' kneeling, head over
this boreal forest pond
reflecting on
winter field: a bobbing fish head
a magpie scavenging in blackfly egg scum
in the snow
summer memories (thanks to W. C. Stevens)
half-buried like first love
~Canada
the pelican plunges
Rose Hunter emerges
with nothing
on the TV you were not
warnings of who I thought you were
“tornadic activity”
keep shifting to ~Tlaquepaque, Mexico
where I’m heading
motel room ceiling

wallpaper border
with proscenium arch
we!fall asleep watching
the performance Trish Fong
For Shaun Nutana Birks
trampling over
the shells, you say text message
our architecture is from an old flame
not modern winter rain . . .
form doesn’t follow function long after midnight
still staring at the embers
iguana
Pierrot our seed
costume planted all those years ago
and you fooling lies dormant, still
next to the pyramids without sunlight, who knows
the depth of its beauty
lying under the broken

today I found
ceiling fan, you ask me
a pale blue egg
if you could be any
laying in the grass
candy bar
I took it inside, kept it warm
which one would!you be?
and thought of second chances
in the shower a blue sheen

the whirr of the stretched across wet sand
air-conditioner delays my walk
I think of a time even the beauty of clouds
I could never get warm and sky are within our reach
~Gisborne, New Zealand
mountain stream
Margarita Engle the fallen log
a bridge
green landscape between two green
the patient oxen shades of forest
a horseman
stops to visit ~California's Sierra Nevada Mountains
the witches' hut
~Cuba fences
the old woman answers
when asked
white sand
what had changed most
and black coral
since her youth
a pineapple
on the beach
~California's Sierra Nevada foothills
crisscrossed by ghost crabs
~Cuba
alone
in the foothills
old sea wall I sit
beside centaurs and mermaids and listen
of stone to the mountain lion's cry
the patience of people
watching the sea ~California's Sierra Nevada foothills
~Cuba
poison oak
even in my throat
insomnia and yet
on an island on this spring morning
of hammocks a goldfinch returns from afar
no border
between night and day ~California's Sierra Nevada foothills
~Curacao
ant hills
on the orchard road
migration reclaiming
painted lady butterflies the wild terrain
and azure moths of peaches
fly together
away ~California's Central Valley
~California's Sierra Nevada Mountains !
~Engle, cont. Bobbette A. Mason
farm night
blooming daylilies
in Orion's Belt
!!!!!!!!! a neighbor’s cat
a thread of cloud
beds down in splendor
weaves its way
rises from a morning nap
between stars
indifferent to my gaze
~California's Central Valley ~Wilmington, Delaware, USA
after the crash bright blue cornflower

a roadside memorial !!!!!!!!! tucked into his buttonhole
the wind !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! commuting to Wall Street
gathers wildflowers star sapphire cufflinks
all around the haunted tree !!!!!!!!! pawned for daily bread
~California's Central Valley ~Brightwaters and Bowery, New York, USA
country road on a knoll of lush moss

in the season !!!!!!!!! pristine bones picked clean
of yellow !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! curled in perpetual rest . . .
school buses the vixen waited too long
horses watch !!!!!!!!! to cross thin ice
~Green Island, Upper Saranac Lake, New

~California's Central Valley
York, USA
feedstore just once more . . . I yearn

the scarlet macaw !!!!!!!!! to paddle in solitude
in a cage !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! across to Green island
together we dream longing to find
of travel !!!!!!!!! my sacred place
~California's Central Valley ~Adirondack Mountains, New York, USA
one might speculate

!!!!!!!!! peripheral neuropathy
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! left her feet numb . . .
abandoning her adopted son
!!!!!!!!! left her soul dead
~Long Island, New York, USA
half asleep
Bob Lucky sitting on the toilet
working backwards
the first
through every meal
good pomelo
the last two days
this season
we go to the market
~Hangzhou, China
and don’t even haggle
~Hangzhou, China
the Blue Angels
over Lake Washington—
along the river who else notices
a bamboo forest the fly that lands
of fishing poles on the poached salmon
leaning into the breeze
coming in from the sea ~Seafair, Seattle 2008
~Hangzhou, China
in the rain
my son runs to the river
and back
because he felt like it
he says, and why not
~Hangzhou, China
Deborah P Kolodji
we brace ourselves
sonic booms
with tea and Chinese phrasebook—
as the space shuttle lands
Great Wall Motors
at Edwards . . .
afterwards we aren’t sure
my Star Trek plates
what color car we bought
rattle in the cupboard
~Hangzhou, China
"for sale sign"
late at night in front of our old house
the rattle of the sewer I wish I could buy it again
cover but without you
doesn’t disturb me this time
as much as the neighbor’s dog
~Temple City, California, USA
~Hangzhou, China
Patricia Prime
dragonflies while fossicking
snap at the headlands in the black dunes
hovering of Whatipu beach
above an ice-cream sea we find a seahorse skeleton,
before heading into the blue a lost shoe and a tyre
just below on a cold spring day

the flagstaff I stand outside
on Bastion Point the art gallery
a cycle race passes where an enveloping fire,
on the slick, wet road a red painting invites me
on the North Shore Heads Karakare Beach

there’s the taste of the sea with its incomplete memory
the glow of sun of your death—
highlights the Gulf islands always the black sand & surf
and a yacht race out at sea to remind me of that Christmas
at Raglan the waters

black sands and a grey heron of Tolaga Bay
where maned breakers sweep across the ocean,
break on the point gulls circling the slipping cliffs
and our words disappear fall back into the wind
in the spring air we tramp

of a Northland dairy to the steep valley
it’s not just ice cream of Huia Falls
you offer but the subtext lean against the bridge rail
of your eyes, clear and bright from which people have leaped
the small plane from her rest home

a winged finger a lone survivor
pointing of the Titanic
across Cook Strait sells her memorabilia
towards the South Island for 31,000 pounds
~New Zealand
Dawn Bruce here and there
in the field the farmer left
a toddler a few tufts
hides in Moore's Corn Maidens, as sacrifice
'reclining mother and child' for the geese and the crows
is he the whisper
from our!secrets
we dismantle!
and move the woodpile
touched to another spot
by dappled light!I walk deep in its heart
Art Gallery Road the skin of snakes
Monet's water lilies
touches me from within
a jay
~Art Gallery Rd, Sydney Australia whittles!away the suet
while the sun
eats into the snowbank
this side of the hill
the mind
Michele L. Harvey of mother!
tortured!by demons . . .
at the bend after her death, the tool shed
I hear the freight train blow filled with pitchforks and rakes
turtle eggs
hatch by riverside tracks
in the soft depths of cinder he said, that cat
formed a bridge of laughter
between us
much like us we'll keep him in the freezer
the scarecrows hold hands until the spring thaw comes
this spring
some wren has nested
in the pocket of your pants she never made
that promised rag doll
between buttons
seeking quiet in her tin sewing box
after the argument . . . the cold stare of eyes
in her garden
she plants peonies
with the eyes facing up !
~Harvey, cont.
a loaded hay wagon
barren trees I share
stand knee deep in their own leaves the slow rising moon
when you with a lone coyote
have seen enough of me
will the wind be my friend?
alone
after his passing
hydrangeas blush his dog
in the cool autumn dawn for a full fortnight
a robin lingers calls the moon down
between tall, white heads
~Hamilton, New York
of tombstones
the lover
she never saw again
after her husband
chased him down the street Sean Wills
with a shotgun in his hands
the River Liffey
is slow today
it ends workmen trudging home
about a quarter mile in the city cut in two
a rough-hewn wall glass and old brick
trapped in the forest glade
with the day's last rays ~River Liffey, Dublin, Ireland
the wind thick English coins

scatters dandelion seed a bookshelf in disarray
far and wide dusty and old
the tinkling bells scattered volumes
of the shepherd's flock read and unread
~Ashbourne, Ireland
the noise
of the school bus louder
at the turnaround piano music
a whitewashed cross playing
festooned with beer cans in a red room
the laughter of bar patrons
ignores the music
sitting atop ~Dublin, Ireland
Marje A. Dyck Brian Zimmer
toward evening
forest exudes
the scent of pine— the habit
two tiny sandpipers of his madness
share my stretch of sand boys follow
their raving father
to the harbour’s edge
fat fox sparrows
on the beach ~Hamilton Harbour, Lake Ontario, Canada
brisk air
tells me (The poem is based on a scene that visibly upset
they will soon leave witnesses who appeared fearful for the young boys
trying to be invisible and keep close to their
disturbed father. The shared look on their faces
suggested this was not a one-off experience.)
against a tree
I shelter from the wind
May sunshine
trickles into my bones your favourite season
the earth still damp gilds the distant hills
impossible to stanch
the reddening escarpment
in the blue distance impossible your passing
through binoculars
Mallard and his mate ~Niagara Escarpment above Hamilton,
draw a silent path Ontario, Canada.
over still waters
(In memory of my mother born September 1936,
died April 2008.)
luna
your pale green wings
into the flame
the moon sinks slowly pine needles
on the horizon gentle the forest floor
another boy
in a place we could
country road trust to be safe
clover and fleabane
nod in the wind— ~Southwestern Ohio woods, mid-1970s
the everlasting things
of childhood
~Canada
M. Kei
“Library” there's a prison

says the sign, in your heart and it keeps me
but who stops captive, dangling
to read the between your breasts
Book of the World? on a silver chain
the vines cover the sudden clatter

the chainlink fence, of birds crashing against
determined sky blue windows—
that it too will return how many hearts have
from whence it came made the same mistake?
I didn't like my job, once upon a time

but I miss in America
not having it— ! !I was a child
these empty days ! !with a tabby cat
of withered leaves ! !and faith in dreams
the waitress and I long, long ago,

compare broken fingers in a land called
while she makes 'America'
change for ! ! the days were made of gold
my breakfast ! ! and every dream came true
~Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, USA

a recruiter
for the corrections department . . .
petite, blonde, and ladylike,
she assures us that the
jail is clean and not too dark
the only man

in the Breast Health Center
contemplates
images of women
growing gracefully older
Peggy Heinrich Ella Wagemakers
old bible we enter

recording generations a Leidseplein coffee shop
of births and deaths to look for weed
mine was the first divorce you wonder whether to hold
in our family . . . or not to hold my hand
~New York City, USA

a lovely ride
as I show you around
Outside the glass door the grachten
a giant spider web — on a bridge a barrel organ
reluctant to tear it earns enough parking fees
I choose
another path.
the day you left
~Bridgeport, Connecticut, USA I waded through a downpour
in Breda
walking in and out of shops
This circus act without a backward glance
— levitation —
outside my window
while the long needle of its beak at last
straws nectar. this spot on the cliff
a place
~Santa Cruz, California, USA to sit together
and say nothing
road songs . . .
I used to hitchhike
to the city
the old house nothing
but a roof between rides
~Oudenbosch, The Netherlands
Book Reviews
Atlas Poetica welcomes book reviews context from which the work is drawn. The
and non-fiction articles relevant to poetry selections in Cicada Forest overcome this
of place. We accept non-fiction submission by addressing topics and feelings that are
year round. Please contact us with your universal to humanity but with a special
idea to see if it is something that might affinity for women. Motherhood is a
interest us. subject that translates well.
a memory now,
Cicada Forest Reviewed by my son's
M. Kei soprano voice
like the myth
Cicada Forest : An Anthology of Tanka of the stars
Mariko Kitakubo
Amelia Fielden, trans. Many of the poems in Cicada Forest will
Kadokawa Shoten be readily received due to their similarity
Tokyo, Japan, 2008 to other works and treatments popular in
189 pp, perfect pound, color cover, 9" x 6" English-language tanka.
Cicada Forest is a personal anthology by even rainy days

Japanese tanka poet Mariko Kitakubo. It at the beach
presents Japanese and English translations aren't bad
of excerpts from her previous Japanese I whisper into the ear
books I Want to Tell You in the Words of of a jet-black labrador
Waves, When the Music Stops, WILL
(published in English as On This Same But some of her tanka are ambiguous in
Star), new writing, a preface by Michael ways that will make North American
McClintock, and a greeting from the poet. readers uncomfortable. The following
As such it qualifies a sampler of work from verse appears in a sequence that contains
one of Japan's major tanka poets, both maternal and erotic poems. Is 'my
deliberately intended for an English- boy' a son or a lover? If the poems were all
speaking audience, but including Japanese one sort or another we could make that
in full page renditions so that the two decision with confidence, but even if we
languages are presented as co-equals. decide that this is a poem about a mother's
Fielden is a translator dedicated to love for her son we have had to stop and
bringing the works of contemporary tanka think.
poets to the anglophone audience, and we
are in her debt for expanding our sunshine filtering
knowledge of modern tanka poets. through the trees,
pooled between
Translation is never easy, and it is also my boy's slender collar bones
never easy to introduce some one to an music from a water harp
audience that has a limited grasp of the
Many of the poems in the book address men's sizes too wide,
her relationships with men—her ex- kid's size
husband, lovers, men she encounters in not long enough,
the travels—all appear with a great this is the time
frequency, and sometimes with surprising of the voice-changing size
intensity. The appreciation that Kitakubo
has for men of all sorts, including those do you remember
who are presumably much younger than yourself
herself, is new territory for North American when you would smile
readers. Male tanka poets have often as if your cradle
praised younger women, but the older were a warm pool of sun?
woman who is equally frank about
younger men is still a relatively rare coaxed
phenomenon. by my boy
to keep my hair long,
is he an evil spirit I began 1999
or a god, without cutting it
that handsome Masai boy?
his gleaming body his back
has the gloss of silk in a navy-blue dufflecoat,
is lost in the swirl
Kitakubo can address the intangible as of the subway entrance . . .
well as the physical. an eddy of chaos
when did I Kitakubo's work is powerful, full of

start to drift away— memorable images and intensely felt
once more it is feelings, all delivered with the confidence
that season of a mature woman and artist. Cicada
of the knife-sharp moon Forest is an excellent introduction to one
of Japan's major poets.
An important element of Kitakubo's work
is how the tanka are arranged in M. Kei
sequences. Here the master's hand is Perryville, MD
clearly at work and shows the gap 22 December 2008
between the ancient Japanese and modern
English tanka. Sequences in English tend to
be organized in simple ways and often
suffer from a lack of balance. In Kitakubo's
work the sequences are brilliantly
organized, each poem playing off of those
next to it, differing in substantial ways, yet
in harmony. The following tanka are an
excerpt from 'like the myth of the stars.'
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 breaths, and his heart beat on, slowing
announcements in any language up to 300 down, for about ten minutes until he died
words in length or on a space available basis. peacefully at 3:45 p.m. today. His
Announcements may be edited for brevity, daughter Beth and I were holding his
clarity, grammar, or any other reason. Send hands and singing Amazing Grace to him.
announcements in the body of an email to:
AtlasPoetica@gmail.com—do not send
He'd awakened early this morning saying
attachments. Announcement may be in any
language and do not need to be accompanied he was "composed" and ready to stop
by English translation. fighting, then asked the nurses to call to
tell Beth and me he wanted to speak to us.
*** We came in early and though his voice
was sometimes labored, we had an
animated conversation much of the
Bill Higginson Passes Away
morning. He made it clear he wanted a
straight DNR after all (no intubation, etc.),
The following account was posted to the
and then we talked about how he wanted
Blogging Along the Tobacco Road site
to be remembered (memorial celebrations
<http://tobaccoroadpoet.blogspot.com/
at Tenri in NYC and here in NJ in the
2008/10/bill-higginson-has-died.html>.
spring), as well as personal things. And
Penny Harter is Bill's wife.
then I guess he was ready and just let go.
He knew we agreed with his decision, and

Dear Curtis,
though Beth and I cried, we affirmed that
decision and said that though we'd miss
Bill had been in the ICU since Monday
him terribly, it was time. He'd been
early morning, and he was weakening
through enough. He will be cremated, and
some each day. And sadly, just after we
the only service anytime soon will be a
were making plans today for Bill to go to
family graveside ceremony in about two
hospice care within the hospital (his
weeks or so. I have Beth with me and
decision), his heart went crazy, suddenly
family coming tomorrow. I'll be going
beating up in the high 190s / 200s, he
down to my daughter Nancy's for about a
glazed over, his rapid labored breathing
week to recover a bit from the strain of
slowed dramatically to the last few
recent weeks, leaving on Tuesday or so. Marjorie Buettner announces
Then I'll start dealing with things here. Seeing It Now, haiku & tanka
Bill and I both have been most grateful for Marjorie Buettner's new collection, Seeing
all the cards and e-mails of support we've It Now: haiku & tanka, is available now
received over the past weeks. Bless you from
all! I won't be checking e-mail much while
at my daughter's, but may do so once in a Red Dragonfly Press, 307 Oxford Street,
while. I'm not ready for engaging in much N o r t h fi e l d , M N 5 5 0 5 7 [ t e l . :
personal correspondence yet. 507-664-3892].
The book lists for $15.00. !
Love,
Penny ***
***
Rusty Tea Kettle: A Tanka Journal -
Tanka Central research desk Call for Submissions
updates: M. Kei's Bibliography and Rusty Tea Kettle: A Tanka Journal
TSA Tanka Venues list
Rusty Tea Kettle is a quarterly online
Two important updates have been made to journal that is seeking the absolute best in
the Research Desk page of English tanka. Each issue will feature no
www.tankacentral.com which is at more than ten poets. Each of these poets
http://www.tankacentral.com/library/ will have no more than five of his or her
research/ . poems showcased. The focus of Rusty Tea
Kettle will be quality over quantity. Issues
The Bibliography of English-Language will come out in January, April, July and
Tanka, Version 2.7 compiled by M. Kei & October. Rusty Tea Kettle cannot pay its
updated on 6 November 2008 has been contributors. Rusty Tea Kettle and its
posted.! This has become the standard editors hope to publish an anthology of its
bibliography for tanka in English. finest poems in 2010.
The document Tanka Venues is a listing of Rusty Tea Kettle, a brand new online tanka
tanka publications with citation journal, is now accepting submissions for
abbreviations as approved by the Tanka its first issue, which will be released in
Society of America. The updated second January. Please send no more than ten of
edition (April 2008) has been posted. your best poems to
rustyteakettle@yahoo.com. Rusty Tea
Kettle does not accept postal submissions,
*** nor is it able to pay its contributors.
Note: Rusty Tea Kettle places most of its

emphasis on subject matter, so form will
not be held to any strict historical or
contemporary guidelines. However, Rusty liberated heart, innocent and playful
Tea Kettle's standards are extremely high, against the tapestry of the universe—
so please don't become discouraged. Just
keep in mind that, in this day and age, tonight
boarded-up windows are perhaps a more I’m going out to count
relevant topic than cherry blossoms. Of the stars—
course, the best poems are those that if you wait up for me
manage both. I might bring back a few
http://rustyteakettle.blogspot.com/! It has been worth the wait."

—William J. Higginson, author, The Haiku
*** Handbook, etc.
Meals at Midnight, Poems by "Michael McClintock has given us an

Michael McClintock, published by exquisite collection where every poem, in
its tight and masterfully-crafted lines, is
MET Press rich with unexpected imagery and layers
of narrative. Every poem vibrates with the
Meals at Midnight, Poems by Michael eternal resonance of myth and seasons
McClintock, his long-awaited new within its immediate story; every one gives
collection, is here at last and it does not us something far beyond the moment.
disappoint our expectations. Here is a With McClintock as our guide, we are
heady banquet of the finest of modern with these poems ‘in that lucid hour/when
tanka poetry in English—a feast for heart the sun’s a chariot/wheeling through the
and soul. cedars.’"
—Laura Maffei, Editor and Founder,
Baltimore, Maryland – December 6, 2008 American Tanka
– Meals at Midnight, the newest collection
of poems by renowned poet Michael "Michael McClintock’s tanka bear the
McClintock, has been published in both stamp of authenticity. Shot through with a
hard cover and trade paperback by wry sense of humor, they contain the
Modern English Tanka Press. Anyone who flavor of a man who has lived broadly yet
loves tanka and haiku will be thrilled by deeply, who’s taken his share of knocks,
this outstanding collection, already widely and who has no time for insignificant frills
praised by poets and critics alike: or the lies so many people tell themselves.
Beyond their rich craft and formal design,
"Those who knew Michael McClintock as the poems of Meals at Midnight rest upon
the foremost poet of ‘liberated haiku’ insight, character, and a gusto for life.
decades ago will discover here a more Another of his outstanding achievements."
deeply liberated tanka poet. In Meals at —Dave Bacharach, Editor of Ribbons:
Midnight we find the utter simplicity of a Tanka Society of America Journal
man who has found the world new,
through love, and with that, a language "All these years I have thought of Michael
free of artifice or struggles for effect. These McClintock as a tough old bird. How
are deeply, purely, the poems of a
delightful then to read this collection of viewing the world. However, it’s very
gentle poems. The word ‘gentle’ may be difficult to use effectively. McClintock’s
misleading, for the poet in his lonely animist tanka are very natural and vivid—
moments responds with strength and one at a time
acceptance to what such a moment brings. I step on stones
The title itself resonates for me, for even and cross the stream—
though only one poem is about a midnight when I’m across, the stones
meal, I am reminded of Takuboku’s essay go back to what they were doing"
‘Poems to Eat.’ These are poems in that
vein. That is to say, a tanka poem is the —Kozue Uzawa, translator of Ferris Wheel,
very life blood of being, as important as winner of the 2007 Donald Keene
food is. I feel in these poems the Translation Award for Japanese Literature,
importance of nature, but it is not the and editor of Gusts
nature so often seen in haiku and tanka, a
nature used to conveniently fit a human "A fine meal indeed! It has been a great
condition. No, these poems are the poet pleasure to immerse myself in this
living in nature, concerned with nature, collection of finely crafted tanka.
appreciative of nature. And with this love McClintock skillfully blends together
of nature is the poet’s love of a woman. To moods and keen insights to the human
share these feelings with Michael offers psyche. Many of these poems seem to
something positive in this modern world have been penned during periods of
gone berserk. As Michael shaves the solitude, more often in the spirit of being
shadows from his face, so do we—finding alone-together rather than of being lonely.
in these quiet poems a good deal that is I found many of these tanka to be
relevant amid the turbulence of our permeated with a dreamlike, almost
world." surreal quality. Some marvelous humor
—Sanford Goldstein, Atellib House, Japan here too, and this poet doesn’t miss an
opportunity to snicker at himself. Arranged
"These tanka—and some haiku—speak of seasonally, the poems move through a
a world that is both intimate and domestic broad spectrum of emotions, from
and yet vast and ineffable. It is poetry that wistfulness to laughter, from incredulity to
for all of us is instrumental in ‘making a rapture. McClintock is a talented chef."
h o m e b e t w e e n t h e m ’ a s M i ch a e l —Christopher Herold, Found and Editor,
McClintock says. He remains one of the The Heron's Nest
strongest and original voices in
contemporary American tanka."
—Miriam Sagan, author of Map of the Lost About Author:
(University of New Mexico Press) and
columnist, Writer’s Digest Michael McClintock holds degrees from
Occidental College and the University of
"I like Michael McClintock’s poems of Southern California in English and
animism . . . they are very attractive. In American Literature, Asian Studies, and
Japanese literature, particularly in tanka, Information Science. McClintock’s poetry
animism is a very traditional way of has been widely published and translated
internationally, including by Nobel
Laureate, Czeslaw Milosz. He resides in Looking for a Prince: a collection of
Los Angeles and Fresno, California, senryu and kyoka by Alexis Rotella,
following a career as principal librarian,
fi l m a n d r e c o r d i n g s c u r a t o r, a n d Published by Modern English Tanka
administrator for the County of Los Press
Angeles Public Library System.
Looking for a Prince: a collection of senryu
For media inquiries or to arrange an and kyoka by Alexis Rotella has been
interview with the author, contact Michael published by Modern English Tanka Press
McClintock by e-mail at in a trade paperback second edition. In
MchlMcClintock@aol.com. Publisher this classic collection, "With just a few
information at: words, Alexis Rotella catches life’s
www.modernenglishtankapress.com. revealing moments with an insight and
depth that the movies—if they were able—
Hard cover with dust jacket—Price: would take millions of dollars and the
$24.95 USD. ISBN 9 978-1-935398-01-1. talents of hundreds to capture. Some of her
Trade paperback—Price: $11.95 USD. poems throw off stars like a wand in a
ISBN 978-1-935398-00-4. 104 pages, Disney cartoon, drawing pictures of the
6.00" x 9.00", perfect binding, 60# cream Cinderellas of this world as they try to
interior paper, black and white interior ink, balance their romantic dreams with reality.
100# exterior paper, full-color exterior ink. Others lay bare, as in a Capra comedy, the
foibles of all kinds of people, .... She can
*** create darker moods, too, reaching out a
hand to open the curtain on psychological
Announcing Kindle of Green, tanka dramas of silence and repression like those
found in Bergman. Or she may direct a
by Cherie Hunter Day and David love scene with such a bittersweet mixture
Rice of emotion and humor it rivals one of
Chaplin’s. She opens our eyes to nature,
Cherie Hunter Day and David Rice are too, with the kind of love of rain and
pleased to announce the publication of sunlight that stains with beauty the films of
Kindle of Green, a book-length a Kurosawa. You may even find a few
collaborative tanka sequence. Letterpress Hitchcockian mysteries!" —Cor van den
on emerald Stardream cover and hand- Heuvel
sewn binding by Swamp Press. Illustrations
by Cherie Hunter Day. Baltimore, Maryland – September 7, 2008
– Looking for a Prince: a collection of
ISBN 978-0-934714-36-5. 48 pages; 5.5 x senryu and kyoka by Alexis Rotella, has
8 inches. $13 postpaid in USA and been published in a second, revised
Canada; $15 US for international orders. edition in trade paperback by Modern
Available from: Cherie Hunter Day, P.O. English Tanka Press. This classic collection
Box 910562, San Diego, California 92191. had been too long out of print and Modern
English Tanka Press is proud to be make it
***
available to Rotella fans and the whole and The Persimmon Tree. Her haiku,
reading public once again. senryu and tanka have won many awards
and recognition. Her work appears in
"Alexis Rotella’s work reflects the wide numerous anthologies including Global
spectrum of the Creation itself—glowing Haiku (Twenty-five Poets World-wide),
with the special light of art. With just a few George Swede and Randy Brooks, Mosaic
words, she catches life’s revealing Press; How to Haiku, Haiku Moment, both
moments with an insight and depth that by Bruce Ross, Tuttle; Beneath a Single
the movies—if they were able—would Moon (Buddhism in Contemporary
take millions of dollars and the talents of American Poetry), Johnson and Paulenich,
hundreds to capture. Some of her poems Shambhala; The Haiku Anthology 3rd ed.,
throw off stars like a wand in a Disney Cor van den Heuvel, Norton; Haiku I
c a r t o o n , d r aw i n g p i c t u r e s o f t h e (Poesies Anciennes et Modernes) Jackie
Cinderellas of this world as they try to Hardy, Editions Vega; Haiku for Lovers,
balance their romantic dreams with reality. Manu Bazzano (MQP); Czeslaw Milosz/
Others lay bare, as in a Capra comedy, the HAIKU (Krakow, Poland); Synesthesia in
foibles of all kinds of people, from heart- Haiku and Other Essays, Toshimi Horiuchi
surgeons to innkeepers, from upper-class (University of Philippines Press) and Haiku
matrons to feminists. She can create darker in English, Hiroaki Sato (Simul Press,
moods, too, reaching out a hand to open Japan).
the curtain on psychological dramas of
silence and repression like those found in Rotella’s longer work and Japanese related
Bergman. Or she may direct a love scene poems have appeared in hundreds of
with such a bittersweet mixture of emotion journals and magazines including The
and humor it rivals one of Chaplin’s. She New York Times (Metropolitan Diary),
opens our eyes to nature, too, with the Christian Science Monitor, Family Circle,
kind of love of rain and sunlight that stains Glamour, New Letters, The Paterson
with beauty the films of a Kurosawa. You Literary Review, Chiron Review, Blue Mesa
may even find a few Hitchcockian Review, The Madison Review, Lynx,
mysteries!" —Cor van den Heuvel, Editor, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Simply Haiku,
The Haiku Anthology (Simon and Schuster) Red Lights, and Bottle Rockets. Alexis is
author of the poem Purple which appeared
"Alexis Rotella uses a paintbrush most of in numerous publications including
us think is a song and calls in the invisible Chicken Soup for the Soul and Love, Magic
scents we're all trying to see instead of and Mudpies by Bernie Siegel, M.D.
feel.’ — HAIKU (The Art of the Short (Rodale Press). Alexis was the 2007 grand
Poem), Tazuo Yamaguchi, Brooks Books, prize winner of the Kusmakura Haiku
Decatur, Illinois, 2008 Competition where she traveled to
Ku m a m o t o , Ja p a n f o r t h e awa r d s
About Author: ceremony. Rosenberry Books recently
published A SPRINKLE OF GLITTER (one
Alexis Rotella served as President of the liners). They will republish Alexis' ASK!,
Haiku Society of America (Japan House) in aphorisms and zen drawings, as well as an
1984 and edited Frogpond, Brussels Sprout illustrated volume of PURPLE (A Parable).
Alexis Rotella maintains a personal blog at Modern English Tanka Press. The Tanka
www.alexisrotella.com. She lives in Prose Anthology is vital evidence of the
Arnold, Maryland where she is a first flowering in English of an ancient
practitioner of Oriental Medicine. Japanese genre—tanka prose, the wedding
of prose and tanka in one unified
For media inquiries or to arrange an composition. The great diversity in subject
interview with the author, contact Alexis and style of the individual writings in this
Rotella by e-mail at rengagirl@yahoo.com. volume testifies to the versatility of this
Publisher information at: new medium in the hands of skilled
www.modernenglishtankapress.com! practitioners. Whether the setting is urban
or pastoral, an elegant interior or a rustic
Price: $11.95 USD. ISBN retreat, whether the time is contemporary
978-0-9817691-5-8. Trade paperback. 124 and presently unfolding or archaic and
pages, 6.00" x 9.00", perfect binding, 60# retrospective, the revival of the ancient
cream interior paper, black and white medium of tanka prose has proven equal
interior ink, 100# exterior paper, full-color to the immediate task. This first-of-its-kind
exterior ink. collection draws upon the work of
nineteen poets from eight different
*** countries. The introduction offers a
detailed survey of the genre’s history and
The Tanka Prose Anthology, edited of its evolving forms while an annotated
by Jeffrey Woodward, Published by bibliography directs the reader to related
literature. Why is tanka prose so novel?
Modern English Tanka Press Because it is so old. The present anthology
announces that it is here to stay.
The Tanka Prose Anthology, edited with an
superb Introduction by Jeffrey Woodward, About Editor:
includes cutting-edge tanka prose by an
international coterie of writers. Jeffrey Woodward resides in Detroit. His
Represented in this ground-breaking poems and articles appear widely in
anthology are: Hortensia Anderson, periodicals in North America, Europe and
Marjorie Buettner, Sanford Goldstein, Larry Asia. He currently edits Haibun Today and
Kimmel, Gary LeBel, Bob Lucky, Terra acts in the capacity of Associate Editor for
Martin, Giselle Maya, Linda Papanicolaou, The Hypertexts. A collection of his Eastern
Stanley Pelter, Patricia Prime, Jane and Western writings, In Passing: Selected
Reichhold, Werner Reichhold, Miriam Po e m s , 1 9 7 4 – 2 0 0 7 , wa s r e c e n t l y
Sagan, Katherine Samuelowicz, Karma published.
Tenzing Wangchuk, Linda Jeannette Ward,
Michael Dylan Welch, and Jeffrey For media inquiries or to arrange an
Woodward. interview with the editor, contact Jeffrey
Woodward by e-mail at
Baltimore, Maryland – September 5, 2008 j_l_woodward@yahoo.com. Publisher
– The Tanka Prose Anthology, edited with information at:
an Introduction by Jeffrey Woodward, has www.modernenglishtankapress.com!
been published in trade paperback by
string them together like beads in vivid
Price: $12.95 USD. ISBN sequences. I particularly enjoyed the
978-0-9817691-3-4. Trade paperback. 176 kaleidoscope of voices that makes up the
pages, 6.00" x 9.00", perfect binding, 60# central section, ‘Coney Catching’. Together
cream interior paper, black and white they capture the jostling sensations of the
interior ink, 100# exterior paper, full-color pleasure park, with its glimpses of flesh
exterior ink. and exploitation, but every now and then
a moment of personal grief or shame
*** intrudes to haunt the fun. The tension
between the discipline of the form and the
Greetings from Luna Park, Sedoka extravagant setting of Luna Park is at the
by James Roderick Burns, Published heart of the collection as long-dead lives
come briefly back into focus. The overall
by Modern English Tanka Press effect is eerie and resonant like fairground
music heard from a long-way off." —Esther
Reviving the neglected sedoka form, James Morgan, author of The Silence Living in
Roderick Burns’ second collection Houses
explores the interplay of love and work in
turn-of-the-century Coney Island: a "These postcards from a true Coney Island
Scottish spirit merchant, marooned at the of the mind offer beautifully varied
end of the season by an affair gone sour, privileged personal moments—narrative
writes to his son in order to understand glances, quiet mood swings, implosive
himself; the madam of a boardwalk epiphanies, sudden switchbacks in
whorehouse sounds out seven of her perception. But what I admire most about
customers; a carnival barker revolts against Greetings from Luna Park is the flat-out
the crude methods he must use to pull in ambition of these poems as they gather,
the crowds. Greetings from Luna Park, collectively, to illuminate a particular
with its vision of duty and vanished historical moment and its implications. We
pleasure, creates a place where for a all sense the failure of our franchised
moment we find and lose everything. attempts to provide distraction from the
quotidian, from the oppressions of work
Baltimore, Maryland – September 5, 2008 and ‘duty.’ But I don’t know of another
– Greetings from Luna Park, a collection of writer who has so persuasively argued not
sedoka poetry by James Roderick Burns, for the nostalgic novelty of our sideshows
has been published in trade paperback by and thrill rides but for their human
Modern English Tanka Press. In this, his necessity. This is a startling, transforming
second collection, Burns demonstrates the book. I love the risks this sequence takes
ageless beauty of sedoka is not lost in as James Roderick Burns’ bright
English. A marvelous collection, like a intelligence dances so gracefully with
dream visit to Coney Island. imagination and memory in the ‘winter
ballrooms’ of Luna Park.
"I’m delighted Rod Burns’ collection has
introduced me to the pleasures of the "Right now a sudden gust of wind is either
surprisingly flexible sedoka form. These rustling the leaves outside or bringing rain.
small poems distill intense moments then
I’m not sure I would have heard that published by Modern English Tanka Press
ambiguity before Greetings from Luna in 2007. He is also editor of the recent
Park. It’s that kind of book." anthologies Miracle & Clockwork and Still
—Ron Overton, author of Psychic Killed by Standen (Other Poetry Editions). He is
Train currently completing the Creative Writing
programme at Oxford University, and lives
"The sedoka is a Japanese form seldom with his wife and daughter in Edinburgh,
attempted by Western writers. It contains Scotland.
two verses (katauta), each with a 5-7-7
syllable count. To have attempted the form For media inquiries or to arrange an
is in itself an achievement, but James interview with the author, contact James
Roderick Burns has succeeded brilliantly. Roderick Burns by e-mail at
In his hands the two halves of each poem jamesroderickburns@googlemail.com.
fit together like the necessarily dissimilar Complete publisher information is
shells of an oyster. available at:
www.modernenglishtankapress.com.
"Individually the poems convey a mood
and illuminate a personality. Together they Price: $14.95 USD. ISBN
tell three stories set against the background 978-0-9817691-1-0. Trade paperback. 108
of Coney Island. Each story has a different pages, 6.00" x 9.00", perfect binding, 60#
n a r ra t o r, d i s t i n g u i s h e d c l e a r l y by cream interior paper, black and white
vocabulary and voice: the merchant interior ink, 100# exterior paper, full-color
missing his family; the shell-game exterior ink.
specialist, himself trapped by Coney
Island’s ladies of pleasure, and, perhaps
most poignant of all, the intelligent and
impoverished actor obliged to play the part
of an uncivilised ‘savage’ in a sideshow.
It’s a measure of Burns’ success that we
can be caught up in the narrative without
being conscious of the great skill he
displays in sustaining the form in these
extended sequences.
"This is a brilliant work which fully realises
the poetic and narrative potential of the
form, and it reads wonderfully." —Colin
Will, author of Sushi & Chips
About Author:
James Roderick Burns was born in

Stockton-on-Tees in 1972, and educated at
Balliol College Oxford and the State
University of New York. His tanka
collection, The Salesman’s Shoes, was
BIOGRAPHIES
Dawn Bruce is an Australian poet, Vice- Amelia Fielden is an Australian who divides
president of the Australian Haiku Society and a her time among the Pacific coast of Australia,
member of Red Dragonflies haiku group. Her work Canberra, Seattle,and Tokyo. She is a professional
appears in many journals, magazines, anthologies translator of Japanese and an enthusiastic poet.
and newspapers in Australia and Overseas. She has Ferris Wheel : 101 Modern and Contemporary
won poetry and short story prizes, leads creative Japanese Tanka (by Uzawa & Fielden, Boston:
writing classes and has three free verse and haiku Cheng & Tsui,), was awarded the 2007! Donald
collections, Stinging the Silence, Tangible Shadows Keene Prize for Translation of Japanese Literature,
and Sketching Light (the latter containing tanka and NY. In 2008, In Two Minds, a book of responsive
haibun too) published by Ginninderra Press. tanka written with fellow Australian, Kathy Kituai,
was released by Modern English Tanka Press.
Owen Bullock writes haiku and longer poems,
scripts and stories. He is co-editor of Kokako and Trish Fong is 36 years old and has a working
Associate Editor of Poetry NZ. His thesis on New background in tax, real estate and futures
Zealand Poetry Anthologies is shortly to be trading.!She lives in Gisborne, a small seaside town
published by VDM Verlag of Germany. on the east coast of New Zealand’s north island.!
Her bloodline includes Maori, English, Scottish and
Joe Christensen is a new writer living in Irish ancestry.! Creative writing is her passion with
Altnata, Georgia and has had quite a few several works published in magazines, anthologies
publications since he began writing in the Fall of and journals.! A matter of the heart juxtaposed with
2007, including short stories, free verse poetry and a striking moment in nature is the beauty of tanka.
several Tanka.
Sanford Goldstein has been publishing tanka
Magdalena Dale lives in Bucharest, Romania. for more than forty years. He is co-translator of
She is a member of the Romanian Society of Haiku several collections of Japanese tanka poets.
and has published in Haiku, Albatros, Dor de Dor,
Ribbons, Modern English Tanka and Fire Pearls : Michele L. Harvey is a professional landscape
Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart. She wrote painter, living and working in New York since
a bilingual tanka book Perle de roua/Dew pearls 1977. She divides her time between New York City
and together with Vasile Modovan wrote!a bilingual and rural Central New York State, collecting
renga book Mireasma de tei / Fragrance of lime. imagery and antique roses.!
She is one of the winners of the Tanka Splendor
Contest 2007. Peggy Heinrich’s poems have appeared in
American Tanka, red lights, Ribbons, Moonset and
Marje A. Dyck is a Canadian poet and artist.! many other publications and anthologies
Her poetry and art work has appeared in various worldwide. She is a founding member of the Tanka
journals and anthologies such as Frogpond, Simply Society of America and the Grand Central Tanka
Haiku, The Heron's Nest, moonset, and Modern Café, a workshop of tanka poets. A native New
English Tanka.! Her books include rectangle of light, Yorker, she recently resettled in Santa Cruz,
proof press, l996; and A Piece of the Moon, Calisto California after many cold winters in Connecticut.
Press, 2005.
Rose Hunter is from Australia originally and
Margarita Engle is the Cuban-American author lived in! Toronto for ten years, and has been
of books about the island, most recently The teaching!in Mexico recently. She has had poems in
Surrender Tree from Henry Holt & Co. in April, various journals, and her haiku and tanka! have
2008. The Poet Slave of Cuba (Henry Holt & Co., appeared in Roadrunner Haiku, Shamrock
2006) received many honors, including the Haiku,!Ribbons, and the 3Lights Gallery.
Americas Award, presented at the Library of
Congress.! Margarita lives with her family in Clovis, Kirsty Karkow lives on and!enjoys the coast of
California. Maine even through the winter when her watery
environment turns to ice. This reflects in much of Bobbette A. Mason grew up along the shores
her prize-winning poetry and in the two books that of the Great South Bay. For twenty-seven years she
are in print. These are! water poems: haiku, tanka set children free to make quality observations and
and sijo and shorelines: haiku, haibun and tanka, take fanciful adventures, which they recorded with
both published by Black Cat Press. She has been pencil drawings, substantive data and creative
vice-president of the Tanka Society of America and writing. She received an EPA Award "for a
is currently the tanka editor of Simply Haiku. poetically written environmental program viewed
through the eyes of a Native American".!Retirement
M. Kei lives on the Eastern Shore of the has brought opportunities to! explore the world of
Chesapeake Bay, USA. He crews aboard a skipjack, ideas, especially poetry at the Academy of Lifelong
a traditional wooden sailboat used to fish for Learning.!!
oysters. He is the editor of Atlas Poetica as well as
the author of Slow Motion : Log of a Chesapeake Jo McInerney is an Australian writer who has
Bay Skipjack, and the editor of Fire Pearls : Short had tanka published in Stylus, Eucalypt, paper
Masterpieces of the Human Heart, and editor-in- wasp, American Tanka, Modern English Tanka, Atlas
chief of Take Five : Best Contemporary Tanka of Poetica and Ash Moon. She has had haiku
2008. Over 1000 of his tanka have been published published in Kokako, Shamrock, Stylus, paper
in ten countries and five languages. wasp, Famous Reporter, FreExpreSsion, Frogpond,
bottle rockets, White Lotus, Wisteria and The
Deborah P. Kolodji is a native Southern Heron’s Nest.
Californian who lives in Temple City. She is the
president of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, Paul Mercken is a 73-year-old retired professor
a member of the Haiku Society of America and the of philosophy, living near Utrecht, and secretary of
Tanka Society of America.! Her work has appeared the Nederlandse Haiku Kring (the Dutch Haiku
in Modern Haiku, Eucalypt, Modern English Tanka, Society). His nationality is Belgian. After his PhD in
Strange Horizons, and other places. Two of her Leuven (Belgium) he did post-doctoral work in
short stories were published last summer, in Thema, England and Italy and taught in the U.S.A and in
and in the Futuristic Motherhood Anthology by the Netherlands. He has two daughters in their
MSP Media. thirties. He regards poetry and the art of translating
as a powerful means to build! bridges between
Bob Lucky lives in Hangzhou, China, where he people.
teaches history. His work has appeared in various
journals. Vasile Moldovan is a Romanian poet. He write
both haiku and tanka. Here is his haiku books: Via
Mary Mageau discovered the refined beauty of dolorosa (1998), The moon's unseen face (2001),
Japanese culture when she studied the floral art Noah's Ark (2003) and Ikebana. Also,he translated
form of Ikebana. Digital photography also remains the haiku book The Embrace of Planets (2006) and
a favourite pastime as she captures Australia’s published together with Magdalena Dale a renku
brilliant array of trees, flowers and foliage for her book, Fragrance of lime (2008).!He lives and works
exploration of haiga. Mary’s writings in the verse as a journalist, in Bucharest, Romania.
forms of haiku, senryu, tanka and haibun are
regularly published on web sites and in literary Stanley Pelter was born a long time ago,
magazines. She lives with her husband in rural surviving bombs and education (which, in truth,
south east Queensland. opened many doors). Studied at the post-graduate
Royal College of Art. Now retired, he has been the
Terra Martin, a practicing therapist in Toronto, Principal of several Colleges. Married for 40 years,
has poetry in American Tanka, Asahi Shimbun he has four children, umpteen grandchildren and 3
(Japan), bottle rockets, Eucalypt (Australia), Lynx, more that drift into the generation after that. A
Modern English Tanka, moonset, Ribbons, Simply member of the British Haiku Society for 14 years,
Haiku, 3 Lights Gallery (England), tinywords and he has held several of its Officer positions. He has
many other journals. Her tanka may be read in the written several books of haiku, one on haiku
Landfall and Ash Moon!anthologies. 'theory' and 4 collections of illustrated haibun.
Patricia Prime is coeditor of the New Zealand publishing haiku and tanka for over forty years, and
haiku magazine Kokako and reviews editor of h i s c r e d i t s i n c l u d e! H a i k u , M o d e r n
Stylus. Patricia has published several booklets of Haiku,! frogpond,! American Tanka, The Tanka
poetry in collaboration with fellow NZ poet, Journal,!and Modern English Tanka.!Modern English
Catherine Mair. Patricia recently judged the Junior Tanka Press published!his most recent collection of
Section of the NZPS International Haiku haiku,! Proposing to the Woman in the Rear View
Competition. Ongoing work includes the preface Mirror (October 2008) and they will soon publish a
for Sanford Goldstein's latest collection, an essay collection of tanka,!All the Horses of Heaven.
on African poetry and an essay on haiku by Indian
poets. Alexej von Glasenapp was born in Oslo,
Norway. Her mother is Norwegian and her father of
Alexis Rotella has been writing haiku, senryu German-Brazilian descent. Prior to the age of six,
and tanka for 30 years. ! Her work has appeared she had lived in 4 countries and spoke 3 languages.
internationally in hundreds of publications. Her The family settled in Sweden. After receiving a
latest books include Lip Prints (a collection of tanka Master’s degree in Business Administration at
1979-2007), Ouch ( a collection of senryu Gothenburg University she worked in France, the
1979-2007) and Eavesdropping (a haiku collection, United States, and later in Germany, where she has
Modern English Tanka Press, 2007). Alexis practices remained ever since. She began writing poems in a
acupuncture in Arnold, Maryland, USA. period of spiritual search and inner transformation.
G u y S i m s e r, c a l l e d a n “ i m a g i s t a n d Ella Wagemakers was born!in September 1961

“humourist” by lyric poet Marianne Bluger, Guy in The Philippines and emigrated to The
has written in English and Japanese poetry forms Netherlands in December 1988 and became a
since 1980, including five years service in Japan. Dutch citizen in 1993.! Her essay 'A Dutch
His poems have appeared in over 50 anthologies/ Journey' was published in the anthology Not
journals in Japan, USA, Canada, England and Home, But Here, edited by Luisa Igloria.! Her first
Australia. Awards include the Diane Brebner Poetry poetry collection Sorrows of the Chameleon was
Prize (Canada); Tanka Splendor Prize (USA); the published in February 2007 by XLibris.com
Special Prize, Hekinan International Haiku (Japan). <www.ewchameleon.com>. She teaches English!at
He currently serves as co-chair of the August 2009 the Dutch Police Academy, and lives in
HNA Crosscurrents Conference in Ottawa, Canada. Oudenbosch, West Brabant! with her! husband,
Adrian.
André Surridge was born in Hull, England, and
now lives in the heart of the Waikato in the city of Sean Wills is an Irish student who enjoys books
Hamilton, New Zealand. He is the winner of of all kinds, travel, and writing fiction and, more
several writing awards including Katikati Haiku recently, tanka. He studies English and Philosophy
Contest, NZ, 2004; 8th Paper Wasp Jack Stamm at undergraduate level and hopes to eventually
Haiku Award, Australia 2006; Elizabeth Searle enter academia.
Lamb Award for Haiku, USA 2007; Kaji Aso Tanka
Award, USA 2007 and the Kyoto Museum for Jeffrey Woodward, editor of Modern Haibun &
World Peace Award, 2007. Tanka Prose, resides in Detroit. His poems and
articles are published frequently in periodicals in
George Swede has published 32 collections of North America, Europe and Asia. He recently
poetry and edited six anthologies. His latest edited The Tanka Prose Anthology. He also
collection is First Light, First Shadows which won currently edits Haibun Today.
the Snapshot Press Tanka Collection Competition
2005. He is the editor of Frogpond: The Journal of Brian Zimmer is an ex-pat American poet now
the Haiku Society of America. now lives on the Niagara Escarpment in Ontario,
Canada. His poems have appeared in Gusts,
James Tipton lives in the tropical mountains of Modern English Tanka, Ribbons, Contemporary
southern Mexico where he writes poetry, short Haibun, Simply Haiku, Lynx, Frogpond and other
stories, articles, and reviews. He has been publications.
INDEX
Martha Alcántar, 39 Mary Mageau, 9

Dawn Bruce, 37, 54 Terra Martin, 21, 27
Owen Bullock, 11, 23, 32 Bobbette A. Mason, 51
Joe Christiansen, 36 Jo McInerney, 24
Magdalena Dale, 25 Paul Mercken, 14, 19, 26
John Daleiden, 8 Vasile Moldovan, 12
Marje A. Dyck, 9, 32, 56 Gabriela Ocampo Ocampo, 39
Margarita Engle,32, 36, 38, 50 stanley pelter, 13, 30, 31, 38
Amelia Fielden, 38, 48 Patricia Prime, 11, 33, 37, 38, 53
Trish Fong, 49 Alexis Rotella, 32, 34, 36, 43
Sanford Goldstein, 16 Guy Simser, 28, 33, 48
Michele L. Harvey, 14, 34, 54 André Surridge, 32, 33, 34, 36, 38, 41
Peggy Heinrich, 37, 38, 58 George Swede, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 45
Rose Hunter, 37, 39 James Tipton, 34, 39
Wilt Idema, 26 Alexej von Glasenapp, 19
Kirsty Karkow, 10, 32, 36 Ella Wagewakers, 29, 37, 58
M. Kei, 7, 24, 33, 34, 36, 38, 57 Sean Wills, 55
Deborah P Kolodji, 34, 52 Jeffrey Woodward, 15, 22
Angela Leuck, 20 Brian Zimmer, 56
Bob Lucky, 18, 23, 37, 38, 52
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
MODERN ENGLISH TANKA PRESS, Baltimore, Maryland, USA, publisher of

the biannual journal, Atlas Poetica, 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 Modern English Tanka Press publications,
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 to Atlas Poetica is
required. This statement applies equally to digital resources and print copies of the
journal. Individual copyrights of poets, authors, artists, etc., published in Atlas Poetica
are their own property and are not meant to be compromised in any way by the
journal’s liberal policy on “Fair Use.”
Any educator seeking clarification of our policy for a particular use may email the
Editor of Atlas Poetica, at mkei@atlaspoetica.com. We welcome innovative uses of
our resources for tanka education.
www.atlaspoetica.com www.modernenglishtankapress.com
Also from MODERN ENGLISH TANKA PRESS
Jack Fruit Moon ! Robert D. Wilson

Meals at Midnight ! Poems by Michael McClintock
Lilacs After Winter ! Francis Masat
Proposing to the Woman in the Rear View Mirror ! Haiku & Senryu by James Tipton.
Abacus: Prose poems, haibun & short poems ! Gary LeBel
Looking for a Prince: a collection of senryu and kyoka ! Alexis Rotella
The Tanka Prose Anthology ! Jeffrey Woodward, Ed.
Greetings from Luna Park ! Sedoka, James Roderick Burns
In Two Minds ! Tanka by Amelia Fielden and Kathy Kituai
An Unknown Road ! Haiku by Adelaide B. Shaw
Slow Motion: The Log of a Chesapeake Skipjack ! M. Kei
Ash Moon Anthology: Poems on Aging in Modern English Tanka
! Alexis Rotella & Denis M. Garrison, Eds.
Fire Blossoms: The Birth of Haiku Noir ! Denis M. Garrison
Cigarette Butts and Lilacs ! Tanka by Andrew Riutta
Sailor in the Rain and Other Poems ! Denis M. Garrison
Four Decades on My Tanka Road : Tanka Collections of Sanford Goldstein
! Sanford Goldstein. Fran Witham, Ed.
this hunger, tissue-thin : new & selected tanka 1995–2005 ! Larry Kimmel
Jun Fujita, Tanka Pioneer ! Denis M. Garrison, Ed.
Landfall : Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka ! Denis M. Garrison and Michael McClintock, Eds.
Lip Prints : Tanka and Other Short Poems 1979-2007 ! Alexis Rotella
Ouch : Senryu That Bite ! Alexis Rotella
Eavesdropping : Seasonal Haiku ! Alexis Rotella
Tanka Teachers Guide ! Denis M. Garrison, Ed.
Five Lines Down : A Landmark in English Tanka ! Denis M. Garrison, Ed.
Sixty Sunflowers: TSA Members’ Anthology 2006-2007 ! Sanford Goldstein, Ed.
The Dreaming Room : Modern English Tanka in Collage and Montage Sets
! Michael McClintock and Denis M. Garrison, Eds.
Haiku Harvest 2000-2006 ! Denis M. Garrison, Ed.
The Salesman’s Shoes ! Tanka by James Roderick Burns
Hidden River ! Haiku by Denis M. Garrison
The Five-Hole Flute : Modern English Tanka in Sequences and Sets
! Denis M. Garrison and Michael McClintock, Eds.
Periodicals ! Modern English Tanka ! Atlas Poetica ! Modern Haiga ! Ambrosia !

! Prune Juice ! Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose !
www.modernenglishtankapress.com www.themetpress.com
Modern English Tanka
Print Edition: ISSN 1932-9083

Digital Edition: ISSN 1930-8132
Modern English Tanka Press,

P.O. Box 43717
Baltimore, Maryland, 21236 USA
publishes the quarterly journal of western tanka,
Modern English Tanka, as a book-length print journal,
an ebook, and an online digital edition.
The best tanka poets in English
are to be found in the pages of MET.
Visit the MET website at
www.modernenglishtanka.com.
The Tanka Society of America, formed in Decatur, Illinois, in April of 2000, aims
to further the writing, reading, study, and appreciation of tanka poetry in English.
TSA is a nonprofit volunteer organization that relies on the creativity and energy
of its members to carry out its activities, which include the following:
~ Publication of the quarterly journal, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America

Journal, featuring over two hundred original tanka in each issue, articles,
essays, translations, book reviews, and contest results.
~ Publication of a quarterly newsletter containing news and announcements

pertaining to Tanka Society of America business, its members, and events
in the tanka community in general.
~ Sponsorship of the annual Tanka Society of America International Tanka

Contest every April, judged anonymously by respected tanka poets. Results
appear in Ribbons.
~ Publication of an annual anthology of tanka by members (copies are

available for a nominal fee in addition to membership dues). For more
information on this and other activities, please see the newsletter or contact
an officer.
Tanka Society of America website: www.tankasocietyofamerica.com

Call for Submissions
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose
Issue 1. Summer 2009
You are invited to submit haibun and tanka prose for the Summer 2009 premiere issue of Modern
Haibun & Tanka Prose. The submission deadline is March 31, 2009. Submissions will NOT close
earlier than the deadline.
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose is a biannual journal—a print literary journal, a PDF ebook, and
a digital online magazine—dedicated to the publication and promotion of fine English haibun and
tanka prose. We seek traditional and innovative haibun and tanka prose of high quality and desire to
assimilate the best of these Japanese genres into a continuously evolving English tradition. In
addition to haibun and tanka prose, we publish articles, essays, book reviews and interviews pertinent
to these same genres.
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose specializes in fine haibun and tanka prose. All selection decisions
will be made at the sole discretion of the editor.
Previously unpublished work, not on offer elsewhere, is solicited.
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose, Baltimore, Maryland USA. Website: http://www.modern
haibunandtankaprose.com/ Editor: Jeffrey Woodward. Email up to five haibun, five tanka prose, and
five short works to the Editor at MHTP(dot)EDITOR(at)GMAIL(dot)COM . Before submitting,
please read the detailed submission guidelines and haibun and tanka prose selection criteria on the
website at www.modernhaibunandtankaprose.com/submit.html. Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose
looks for top quality haibun and tanka prose in natural, modern English idiom. No payment for
publication. No contributor copies. Publishes a print edition (6" x 9" trade paperback), a PDF ebook,
and an online digital edition.
Thank you for sharing this call widely.
Sincerely,
Jeffrey Woodward, Editor, Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose
http://www.modernhaibunandtankaprose.com/

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ATLAS

A Journal of Poetry of Place

Number 3 Spring 2009

Atlas Poetica : A Journal of Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka

Send all submissions to: submissions@atlaspoetica.com

Atlas Poetica : A Journal of Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 2009.

Print Edition ISSN 1939-6465

Editorial Legs of Invisible Desire, M. Kei........ 25

Atlas Poetica • Issue 3 • Page 7

Sultry night— air conditioned—

echoes remembered— Aunt Jemima

Yucca blooms in place of the fields

from the window our burden lightened

Atlas Poetica • Issue 3 • Page 8

the beach O’Reilly’s aerial walkway stretches high

out of the woods high above

small beach fire

Atlas Poetica • Issue 3 • Page 9

tenements used in court

where does a home health aide

a lonely widow while children play

a car backfires bowling spares

fresh samples all shadows lost

~Baltimore, Maryland, USA

“ . . . dressed completely in black, with a Granfer drew cartoons

she was her own artist

~Auckland, New Zealand

Ziua tuturor sfin!ilor-

Twisted and smoke layered His charred tears land on

sweet eyed girl

washing and bathing

I imagine a Sunday night supper,

how in kindergarten after a day at school

recalling Christmas once coming home

once in sixth grade at Hebrew school

just about everyone the depression

such joy carrying Negro the good word

once at a drugstore once

I did not know then a newsboy I was,

in the synagogue in the newsreels

ignorant we were, Hitler,

at summer camp no one warned me

my aunt said no Crucifixion

to eat pork they came rushing to get

because we can’t remember where we

alone for the first time passing a rock pile

grain elevators on the street

at The Lucky Dollar in the country cemetery

Main Street on the edge of town

the smell of smoke after the leaves

standing on the spot in the regional park

two deer Terra Martin

~Middle Lake, Saskatchewan, Canada short of

You coveted a savage beauty and settled I, too, regard

not far from the house

over slow water 1.! Gippsland is a region in south-eastern

cold and deep

Day dreaming in the mud

Chilly wind derelict memory,

A! passerby walking the street

A lime tree without an audience,

~Elkton, Maryland, USA

Hoe belandde ik, Geleid door lusten,