These old dishes

these old dishes 
crazed with spidery veins— 
the "good china" 
saved for special occasions 
few and far between 

—A Hundred Gourds, 5:2, March 2016

A dollop; grouped by class

a dollop

of clotted cream

on my scone—

the pleasant taste of things

I once avoided

~afternoon tea, cruise ship

grouped by class

while on the Titanic

though just one

set of numbers

for all their gravestones

~Titanic cemetery, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada

—both of these published in Atlas Poetica, 22, Summer 2015

Stitches out!

stitches out!
at this Thai café
my rice
arrives on the plate
in the shape of a heart

—American Tanka, #26, Feb. 2016

Fresh beet juice

fresh beet juice

washes over my hands …

the blunders

I attempt to sop up

before the stain of regret

—Skylark 3:2, Winter 2015

How deftly; in love; 20-some years

how deftly

you maneuver the chopsticks—

with fork in hand

I study your routine

as if you were a gymnast

—I think this was published (2007?), but I can't figure out where

in love

over vegetable curry
I can’t stop staring. . .
this brown rice
isn’t one bit mushy

—Simply Haiku, Autumn 2006

20-some years

of knowing each other

we choose mild

for the heat level

of our chana masala

—Fire Pearls 2 (an anthology by Keibooks), 2013

Snapping ends

snapping ends

off fresh asparagus—

this brisk fall day

the satisfaction

that comes with clean breaks

—Ribbons "Tanka Cafe" ("endings" theme), Winter 2014  

Love Soup

Love Soup:

the recipe book

I give her,

a former stranger

who warmed my path

—LYNX, 29:1, February 2014

We scour shelves

we scour shelves

for half-price chocolates,

our way

of sweetening

February 15th

—Atlas Poetica 14, spring 2013

Well, bad luck nowadays on snatching up good candy after Valentine's Day. This year, on February 15, the shelves were practically bare.

Guest Poet: an eggplant (plus travel photos)

An eggplant isn't the guest poet, but Jenny Ward Angyal is. I consider Jenny to be one of the most gifted and appealing writers of English-language tanka today. Her keen, unique perception and special bond with nature flavor her poems. I have many favorites. Here's but one from her ever-growing collection. It's an ekphrastic tanka (inspired by a piece of art; see her links below): 

an eggplant

squats on the counter

fecund and faceless

as the Venus of Willendorf –

my knife in midair

—Atlas Poetica Special Feature: Ekphrastic Tanka, Nov. 2012
Who is the Venus of Willendorf ?

I was excited to learn we'd be passing by the wee town of Willendorf on our river cruise this past November. The program director even announced the town on the loudspeaker—and mentioned the ancient little Venus figurine that made it famous. We managed to shoot a photo or two:

A scene in Willendorf, Austria

I also was excited when I noticed this shop window in tiny, medieval Durnstein, a short ways down the Danube (wish I had one of those Venus of Durnstein figurines!):

Notice how the colors coordinate with the colors
used in local architecture?

Many thanks, Jenny. Please peruse her blog, The Grass Minstrel, sometime. Also be sure to check out the above two links associated with her Venus tanka. 

Haiga: spill your tanka

artwork courtesy of Karen A. Smith; dedicated to Sanford Goldstein

—Prune Juice, #10, July 2013

This is known as a haiga, sort of; haiga typically refers to a marriage between illustration and haiku, though mine contains a tanka (or kyoka) instead. I call this one, not surprisingly, a "cartoon haiga." 

Most poets in the tanka community probably are very familiar with the concept of "spilling." The expression above is attributed to Sanford Goldstein, scholar/professor, translator, and tanka master of the past few decades—also candid mentor and kind friend to many of us. I'm not a terribly prolific writer; Sanford told me several times to get myself to a cafe (as he himself would do) and then "spill" (without "thinking")! Maybe someday I'll better heed his advice, though I suspect I'll always prefer my own home, where my words tend to come out in the form of occasional sputters instead of flowing out.

For those in the U.S.: H A P P Y  T H A N K S G I V I N G!

Reading tanka

reading tanka
and yet more tanka
about cherry blossoms
how I crave 
the top of a sundae

—red lights, Vol. 2, No. 2, June 2006
Note: Removed all the punctuation from the earlier version. Am happier now. ;)

It's been years, maybe decades, since I've had a real sundae.

Wine tasting; taking sips

wine tasting:
his usual gruffness
transforms
into a bouquet
of oak and berries

a winery outside Fredericksburg, Texas

taking sips

of prickly pear wine ...

subtle swirls

of sweet and biting

together in one glass

—both of these, Atlas Poetica, Issue 14, Spring 2013

The brimming bowl

the brimming bowl
of potato salad
she made at home
.....my tub of store-bought
.....shriveling beside it

—red lights, Vol. 9, No. 2, June 2013

To those in the U.S., Happy Fourth! Eat a lot of potato salad.

Ode to the fry

I.

Long and slender
like fingers
of a pianist,
other times
broad, almost Rubenesque,
your forms and moods
would sometimes change.
Your skin glistened
a golden tan,
and inside
you were crushed gardenias—
soft and white.
You were best
when sizzling;
I savored your taste
against my lips!
All this:
my portrait of you.

II.

Yet I chose
to wash my guilty
hands of you,
your touch greasy,
your scent
of spent fat oft
now repulsive.
O former fry
of my eye,
you were a houseguest
who would stay
too long—
the way
you would cling
to the gullible
roof of my mouth
with your blatant essence,
my former excess.

III.

I promise to remember
you with youthful lust,
you, wonder
of my innocence!
You, whom I have left
for another—
tossed in olive oil
and roasted—
were far too deadly
for my heart.

“Fry”—also known as “chip," e.g., in the UK.

—Megaera, Spring 2006 (No. 25)

Alas, I couldn't stay away forever. 

Midwinter; three ripened

midwinter
strawberry blossoms 
in summer white . . .
intuitively
I should know not to touch

—GUSTS, Fall/Winter 2012

three ripened

homegrown strawberries . . .
I cut them
for us to share
like loaves and fishes

—Mariposa, 27, Autumn/Winter 2012


There's one decent strawberry plant left this year (above). Oops, I did touch the petals, and a couple came off.

Winter sun

winter sun
finally breaks through—
my mother
knew to cut my apple
so I could see its star

—A Hundred Gourds, 1:3 June 2012

*****************

My grandfather; his early years

my grandfather,
grower of Christmas trees
rows of them
.....before that, children
.....rows of them

      his early years
      on the Kansas prairie,
      memorable 
      and hard . . . like the squares
      of his homemade fudge

—Landfall: Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka, 2007

Shortened days

shortened days—
scooping out seeds
from butternut squash,
allowing the orange ripeness
to permeate

—Ribbons Tanka Cafe ("leafless autumn" theme), Winter 2006
In retrospect, I suppose I didn't need to say "orange." But it was sooo orange. ;)

photo copyright of Robert Curtis

Those in the USA:  H A P P Y   T H A N K S G I V I N G !

Each year, for you

each year, for you
a box of birthday chocolates . . .
what's yours is mine?
how neatly I slice in two
the pieces for you to share

—Modern English Tanka, Fall 2006; Fire Pearls, 2006 

Unfortunately, this tradition may fall by the wayside. Can't find See's Assorted Dark Chocolates just anywhere.

P.S. Some of my early tanka were pretty long.

Never thought

never thought

a life could grow to be
this unadorned,
my daily pot of oatmeal
steaming on the stove

—Modern English Tanka, Autumn 2008; Take Five, 2009

Never thought I'd be wanting that routine back, but after a long stretch of semichaotic living I believe I do. Time to simplify again and even get a wee bit organized. . .while still keeping the infusions of fresh ginger (per the previous poem)?