Tanka Prose

Clouds

I would build a cloudy House

For my thoughts to live in,

When for earth too fancy-loose,

And too low for Heaven. [1]

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If I didn't know better, Elizabeth, I'd say you were haunting me. It all may have started just down the street from a school I attended—at the St. Marylebone Parish Church, where you and your dear Robert secretly married (though I was ignorant of that fact until only recently). I passed by a few hundred times as a youth, never stepping foot inside. Then five years later, and more than an ocean away, I came to live in a college dormitory building that to this day faces a world-renowned library dedicated to you and Robert. So close to you again, yet I continued to be deaf to your presence.

How the decades have turned to vapor. Now, I find myself back in London, roaming the streets as if lured from place to place by your hand, soft and warm. Yesterday, to the National Portrait Gallery and its famous likenesses of the two of you. And this afternoon to this church at Marylebone Road. As soon as I slip in, I notice the plain, dark door labeled "The Browning Room." Ah! It's locked, but I hope you'll give me credit for vigorously rattling the knob. At least I manage to snap a photograph of the heart of the church—from pews to pulpit and grand ceiling—generating stares from a handful of workers before I dash back out.

some have said

cameras steal souls . . .

with this one shot

all I wish to capture

is the splendor within

In search of another wispy trace of you, I next make my way down a section of the High Street and onto quiet blocks known for their opulent, historical residences and medical establishments. My silent gasp as I eventually come upon that famous address where you spent the last eight years of your life before you eloped. Etched quite simply, near ground level, into the building's stone facade: "Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . . Lived in a house on this site." I imagine you, fragile in constitution but your pen bold and strong, crafting your words in a way thought somewhat uncharacteristic for a woman of your time.

a sign 

at 50 Wimpole Street,

once the home 

of a beloved poet: 

The Heart Hospital

Finally, I wind my way through an overly crowded commercial district to Trafalgar Square and then to Westminster Abbey with its numerous pointed arches and sky-piercing Gothic spires. Here, your husband lies buried in the company of other notables, though far away from your own resting place at The English Cemetery in Florence, Italy. I bid adieu to you and yours, Elizabeth . . . but surely only for now.

evensong—

a hush of humanity 

as the sun 

slowly lowers itself

to a choral introit

_______________

Author's Notes:

[1] From "The House of Clouds," lines 1–4, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1841). The first-published version (in Athenaeum) is used here; in subsequently published versions, the punctuation is different.

The wording soft and warm is from "Sonnets from the Portuguese 24," line 3 ("In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm"), by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1850).

The St. Marylebone Parish Church, which has been associated with a great deal of history, was established "sometime after 1086" (per the church's website). The basic structure of the present-day parish church was completed in 1817. Various well-known individuals have attended the church, including Charles Dickens and his son. The Brownings were married there in 1846.

A round commemorative plaque (first installed in 1899), too small and located too high for the narrator to read in person, is affixed to the building at 50 Wimpole Street. Its interesting wording: "Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Poetess, Afterwards Wife of Robert Browning, Lived Here, 1838–1846."

The poet's Georgian Wimpole Street house, which she shared with Barrett family members, was likely torn down in 1935 (sources vary on the date). Curiously, the current structure at that location is associated with a major heart center.

Elizabeth was a semi-invalid for much of her life, apparently suffering from a collection of maladies (the exact set of illnesses is open to debate). Also, it is said she was prescribed opiates, to which she became addicted.

Coincidentally (unknown to the author until she had completed this story), a legend exists that the ghost of Elizabeth haunts the Armstrong Browning Library in Waco, Texas. Also refer to the tanka prose piece "All Things Browning," Haibun Today, 11:1.

_______________

Haibun Today, Vol. 11, No. 2, June 2017

Update: As if I didn't already have enough unexpected Browning and Barrett  "connections" (that I never before paid attention to) . . . A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out old purses and in one of them found a small flyer about a cruise line's shore excursion we went on roughly 20 years ago. It was for Greenwood Great House, a Barrett family residence in Jamaica. 

Long kidskin gloves

long kidskin gloves

she wore in the ʼ60s—

on my bare arm

is this just a freckle

or another age spot?

—Moonbathing, issue 15, fall 2016

She seemed to me to be quite the fashion plate back in the day.

Tanka Prose

Registration

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap … Sturdy, manicured nails striking keys. So far, she's asked me three questions to do with my personal information—basically, if it's still correct. "Yes, Yes, Yes," I've responded. The tapping goes on interminably. Why, I have no idea. Elbow on desk, I rest my chin in my palm.

tick tick tick
who am I anyway?
the most I do
in this sterile space
is take a few more breaths

Then more questions—what's a good emergency contact number, if I have a living will, who my next of kin is—the same questions I've been asked a multitude of times before, followed by more tap-tapping on the keyboard. And eventually, she generates a thin plastic wristband to ID me during my brief stay, a stack of papers I must initial and sign (including one reminding me this is a smoke-free facility), and a stapled document I'm supposed to take home (a candidate for the shredder).

Twelve minutes of my life, gone. Not to mention the eighteen or nineteen minutes of wait time beforehand. To think I'm here only for a routine procedure.

fingernails
painted the color
of the sea ...
deeper, deeper my feet
in imaginary sand

________________

—Contemporary Haibun Online, January 2017, vol. 12, no. 4

Tanka Prose

Welcome

We knew it could happen at any time…. But the manicured evergreens, that stately magnolia tree, no stray leaf or seedpod, said otherwise. As did the covered porch that sheltered us, its graceful rocking chairs always occupied on best-weather days. And the soft whoosh-click of the automatic glass doors. Then once inside, greetings and smiles, swirls of life in the aquarium down the hall, sunlight squeezing between the slats of venetian blinds.

We knew it could happen at any time…. But Christmas came as usual, though this was the year we thought it might not. And each day, comfort-food aromas arising from the kitchen, a subtle soap scent from the laundry. Cheerful floral carpeting that muffled the brisk steps of workers and visitors. The nameplate affixed on the wall by her door. 

We knew it could happen at any time....

without fanfare

residents disappear

from the home

when their time is up—

rooms tidied and swept clean

—Ribbons, Fall 2016

Ragweed grains

ragweed grains

carried on autumn wind ...

not all things

that arrive at my door

do I welcome with grace

—Eucalypt, 20, May 2006

The thin ring

the thin ring
she won't let anyone
remove …
even though she's long past
recalling its history

—American Tanka, August 2016: Issue 27

Holes; I smooth

holes 

in the ceiling and floor—

my father

still clings to the walls

of the family house

—Ribbons, Fall 2015

I smooth

soothing gel on his skin

…...the rash

of old-age uncertainty

more difficult to quell

—Ribbons, Spring/Summer 2016

The sale of the house is scheduled to conclude next week!

With the news

with the news
a faint dusting of snow ...
the word hospice
lodged in my mind,
freezing melting freezing

—GUSTS, #23, spring/summer 2016

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

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!

Barely past dawn

barely past dawn,
the linoleum floor
shiny, speckless—

this hope that the surgeon

will be as meticulous

—Skylark, 3:2, Winter 2015

Tanka Prose

The Breezeway

rest home residents

sedate in their wheelchairs

… as I pass by,

that age-old feeling

of being the odd one out

When the weather is decent enough, patients (both short-term and long-term), as well as family members, caretakers, and miscellaneous workers on break, line both sides of the covered walkway leading to the main entrance of the facility. We often join them there. Swirls of air from the overhead fan graze our faces.

laundry's lost

as often as names

are forgotten …

today my mother

calls me her sister

A magnolia tree, its base wide and its spire reaching well above the rooftop of the adjacent building, usually captures her attention—and mine too. But right now, and for the past week or so, she appears to be particularly fascinated by a certain row of windows on the topmost story. With a voice that more than anything is gentle and hopeful, the one who decades ago carried me into the world advises, "Maybe you'll want to move here, on the third floor."

Within a few seconds, I hear the half-whisper of a woman seated across from me, as if she could read my mind. "It's the view," she offers. I simply nod. 

_______________

Pleased to tie for third place in the recent Mandy's Pages Where the Tanka Prose Grows 2015 challenge! 

Note: A slight edit made in the first tanka—"walk" replaced with "pass," the word I used in my original draft. 

Miles of rivers

miles of rivers
and mountains between us—
in no time
word of his cancer
spreads across the country

—American Tanka, issue 25, June 2015

We've heard that it's returned.

A child's words; so small

a child's words

gator, monster, blue

scribbled 

on notepaper

in the waiting room

—Skylark, 2:2, Winter 2014

so small ...

but only a neutrino

can pass through

this universe

unscathed

—Skylark, 2:2, Winter 2014

The second one represents a slight departure for me.

A wrist band

a wrist band

IDs me with name

and age—

still, all these people

ask me who I am

~hospital, Katy, Texas, USA

—Atlas Poetica 20, January 2015

Refusing

refusing
to use a walker
or cane
she leans on me
for the first time in her life

Happy to win second place for English-language tanka in the 2014 San Francisco International Competition, conducted by the Haiku Poets of Northern California (HPNC). Poet/editor Michael McClintock was the tanka judge this time.

At the ER

at the ER

a fleeting connection ...

the screams

of an unseen stranger

echoing mine

—Atlas Poetica, #18, Summer 2014

It's pretty

it’s pretty

she says while showing me

the sparkling

little gold trinket

she’ll glue inside my mouth

—Atlas Poetica #14, March 2013

I roll them

I roll them
up, down, to the side—
the doctor
peers deep into my eyes
for imperfections

—kernels ("featured poet"), Summer 2013

Well, I'm currently redeveloping eye symptoms. Time to rest my "windows to the soul" as much as possible, which means a bit less time at the PC.

Motionless; stiff blue string

motionless

on a gurney—

sky blue socks

with nonskid treads

to steady me

—Skylark, 1:2, Winter 2013

stiff blue string

knotted on my finger ...

the pain

that lasts long after

the stitches are removed

—Moonbathing, issue #9

The incident mentioned in the second poem occurred in May 2013. Was one ER visit too many for me. I still seem to have some scar tissue in my index finger, and I can't bend the finger as easily as "normal." But overall it seems to have healed up better than I was warned!