Tanka, Tanka Prose and Tanka Sequences
edited by Jenny Ward Angyal
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mountain walk
i call out your name
into the valley
just the sound of my voice
travels back in the echo
midnight walk
we catch fireflies
in the forest
making wishes before
letting them go
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- Written by: Rupa Anand
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wishing
for a snowberry clearwing
I lay eyes
upon the honeysuckle ...
a bumblebee flutters
glitches
in our long distance
phone call–
I sort things out
with the seagull
the cry
of a newborn
in neighbour's house . . .
I forget the garbage
dumped in my front yard
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I sift the vagaries
of my wandering mind
to find poetry -
words weave a tapestry
of land, sea, and sky
a yellowed newspaper
curls towards me
in an autumn breeze -
I throw my baggage to the wind
as if it were old news
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the night sky
a dream cradle
where we meet again
another web remade
by morning
in the gloam
of marsh light
a tern’s wings
returning
molten sky
flicker days
becoming shorter
as the leaves fall
in the forest
of lost embers
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moose tracks
through a northern forest
scent of snow…
Grandmother’s silence
grows deeper
soft curves
I follow the path
of a thawing stream
a robin song weaves
into dawn
Summer Solstice
I prepare an altar
beside the lake
lingering a little longer
with my shadow
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roaming around
Central Park Lake
after a breakup...
Holden Caulfield's ducks
quacking for breadcrumbs
he buys me dinner
from the supermarket
with food stamps
the roses not covered
I pay for them myself
a swimming pool
in our gated condo
unused
except for the neighbor's kids
who drowned in it one day
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war ...
the silence haunting
millions of refugees
and the only way of solace
is my wordless poem
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eating alone
under a pine tree
on Mount Hood
one ant explores
a piece of lettuce
left behind
in father’s garage
unfinished projects —
I breathe in the scent
of metal and rain
waking
from this dream
of raising a family
the weathered garden bed
covered in frost
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fourteen
pairs of eyes open
atop the shelf
they stare in silence
every doll with a secret
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my skin
longs for the journey,
longs for it and clings to it,
the light
that will never end
untended
the footpath
becomes impossible
we have come so far
through thorns and nettle
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hopscotch
girls make little houses
on wet asphalt
someone plays the flute
at the rain's edge
forgotten times ...
at the acacia forest edge
the clear eyes of a lynx,
and in her sweaty hand
wild chrysanthemums
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long years
of living together
under the same roof
when did we stop
sharing our thoughts
blending
into the green foliage
a chameleon hides
i too wish to live
a life of anonymity
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rain starts to fall
a young woman opens
her umbrella over me
and leads me under
the shelter of a fir tree
two strong lads
running by, say
they are joining
the royal marines
'to fight England's foes'
a drunken man
in suit and tie
coming from a funeral
weeps, telling me of all those
he has lost this year
a small blond boy
in uniform says
'it's Lion Cubs now
not wolves' and explains
all his badges
the blackbirds sing
on every tree and rooftop
my head
is full of stories
and wings and songs
Joy McCall, England
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a clove of garlic
rubbed on fresh bread
salt, tomato
and olive oil
snacking on childhood
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we hang
your threadbare dresses
out to air
the prairie wind waltzes
with you one last time
a meadowlark
spins the morning
into gold . . .
your headstone sinks
deeper every year
I fasten
my broken-down guitar
to the farm gate
nesting bluebirds teach me
an unfamiliar song
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promenade
on the lakeside—
our little boy
catches the autumn sun
in a pile of leaves
staircase
bound to the sky—
an old man
whitewashing the wall
of Voroneț Monastery
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if I drove
through five states in twelve hours
non-stop
to find that place again
no one would be home
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just one more thing
to begin the ritual
turning to me
the point of her knife
becomes starlight
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together
in the rain
umbrellas
keeping us
happily apart
those seismic events
that change our world
forever
fixed in the small things
in the hours of our day