Tanka Prose

Fishing for words

Found after decades! Packed away with other favorites of mine, their spines barely affixed, A Child's Garden of Verses (a condensed pop-up edition) and The Golden Book of Poetry … coming back to life. 

I don't know exactly when, or why, my writerly muse first emerged—or where it came from. (But perhaps it was fed by the lines within these very books?) Nor can I explain my inability to hold onto my muse for very long at any given time. Yet even after I've convinced myself it's sailed off for good, I will probably half expect to find it again, waiting for me in some invisible box or misty sea.

Wynken, 

Blynken, and Nod, 

poets three 

in the same wooden shoe 

without their nets of gold

______________

Author's Notes:

— The above tanka is a reference to "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," Eugene Field, 1889; "misty sea" is from the same poem.        

— The Golden Book of Poetry, various poets (including Field), 1947.

— A Child's Garden of Verses, Robert Louis Stevenson, 1885.

—Haibun Today, vol. 10, no. 2, June 2016 

I wrote the above tanka, a take on the familiar children's poem, in response to three of us lamenting the then-current loss of our muses. They must have sailed away, on vacation together. Not long before that, I came across the above-mentioned books, so voila, a tanka+prose piece!

How sunflowers

how sunflowers 

could grow taller than me— 

in first grade 

the blurry border 

between fairy tale and fact 

Mariposa, 33, fall 2015

I feel like growing sunflowers. Maybe next summer.

A small boy; superimposed

a small boy

staring out at a world

he doesn't know—

snug in his flannel robe,

shrouded in illness

superimposed

on a snowy mountain,

my unclothed self …

no pockets to carry

the answers I want

—both of these from A Hundred Gourds, 5:2, March 2016

P.S. The little boy is a teenager now and doing very well indeed—thriving!

Crayon-thick lines

crayon-thick lines

of orange and blue—

her image of me

far more vivid

than I really am

—Ribbons, "Tanka Cafe," Fall 2013

Drawing by my niece Abby, circa 2010. That's me beside the tent
that I live in. I can't remember if the tent was on fire or not.

The future

the future

soon becomes the past—

who knows

how many years

Big Brother's been watching

—Ribbons, Tanka Café ("novels" theme), spring/summer 2015, vol. 11, no. 2

The novel I'm referencing is of course Orwell's 1984.

Still haunting me

still haunting me 
from time to time in dreams ...
your jet-black hair 
highlight-streaked to cover
the gray you now must have

—Modern English Tanka 3, Spring 2007

H A P P Y   H A L L O W E E N

I meander

I meander

through tall pines,

before morning

find myself in a forest

of green flannel sheets

—Modern English Tanka, Spring 2007

Collaborative tanka sequence: a swatch of gauze

Writing responsive or other collaborative sequences appears to be quite popular for many tankaists these days. Here's one I wrote with poet Jenny Ward Angyal (also see the previous post). In my several years as a tanka poet, I'd never collaborated in sequence form before; neither had Jenny. It was a fascinating experience, and I was honored to have such a good partner. Hope you enjoy the little journey we took as we responded to each other's words. Was the journey imaginary or "real"?

P.S. We decided to post this sequence on our respective blogs at around the same time.

a swatch of gauze

the clear wings

of a dragonfly

on my hand

a treasure map

of copper veins

poking 

into the hollow

of an oak

I search for pennies

stashed away by an elf 

hidden

among apple blossoms,

a gray tree frog—

I follow the trill

of another world

visions

of a watercolor

mountainside ...

how to get there

when I have no brush?

quilting

the blue ridge

in light and shadow

I slip through the eye

of my own needle

left right

north south east west—

a feather

on a course of zigzags

becomes my compass 

a sparrow

missing one eye

alights on my knee ...

the distant music

of a blind harper

rendered mute

by a waterfall—

in a grotto

of lava and fern

I speak in poems 

a scallop shell

bound in a bale 

of mulch—

my inland journey

to the sea

at home

among pine needles 

a strand

of golden thread

to bind my seams

—Jenny Ward Angyal and Janet Lynn Davis

Skylark, Winter 2013

Beneath

When you unearth Atlantis

there
you will find me
my backroads
my passion
flung among the rubble.

You will find me
as embers
eros of energy
heaving through debris
like mountains
ascending from the ocean.

All you see now:

my lazuline eyes
and droplets of magma
glowing, creeping from their corners.

It is what you search for
this crusted chaos
is it not
(as souls seek out nests)?

But beware:
if you retrieve me
you must not keep me;
I could ignite

and so might you.

—Ancient Heart, 2006

photo (of a puddle) copyright of Robert Curtis

Sharing with Poets United, Sept. 1

Perhaps this poem is fitting given the scorched conditions we've had here, in our tiny dot on the map in southeast Texas, during the past month or two. 

Proceed with caution *

My sister takes us to a small museum on the quiet college campus not far from her home. There, at the back of one of the artifacts, a sign:

Warning!

Enter at your own risk

a wardrobe

hand-carved long ago . . .

peering inside

I catch myself

searching for Narnia

The Wade Center

assumes no responsibility

for persons who disappear

or are lost . . .

—A Hundred Gourds, 2:2, March 2013

* Above, a piece of tanka prose (or "haibun" with tanka instead of haiku), a literary form that—you guessed it—consists of one or more tanka blended with prose. It's taken me a little while to get the hang of these, but now I'm almost hooked. Oh no, that could mean another obsession.