Tanka Prose

Singing Pines

In the center of the quiet road, a small tangle of thin cable, barely visible against the tarry surface. I determine that it's a pair of earbuds, one badly cracked, partially flattened. Who would have worn these? Who would have needed them when the sounds of nature—these woods, this sky—are all around? I resume my brisk pace, dismissing my own questions.

Moments later, the world opens up, flings itself at me with whistles, warbles, caws, chatter. With flapping sounds, scampers, whish-whooshes, crackles, and thuds, from the forest floor to the tops of the tallest pines. Everything amplified. I find music even in the human-made: distant buzzes and hums of lawn equipment, the repetitive clanking of construction a mile or so away. From then on, each time I walk along that stretch of road, the same magic, the same amplification. Days pass, weeks pass; remarkably, the earbuds stray only a foot or two from their original location.

the rattle

of threadbare branches

evolves

into an aria

of unfurling leaves

as if someone

suddenly cranked up

the bass . . .

from a pond's reedy edge

the breeding calls of bullfrogs

My husband joins me on today's walk. This time, when I see the little puddle of cable, I make an impromptu decision—to gently kick it off to the edge of the asphalt, out of the way. I notice that the damaged bud is finally missing altogether. But as we pass by again, on our second lap, I recall that a crew will soon be out to mow down the tall, wild grasses. I kick the former listening device back, ever so slightly, into the road. My husband appears baffled by my behavior, why I would want to protect such a battered, useless thing. He doesn't seem to realize that, when it comes to certain matters of importance, I need reminders.

_______________

—Contemporary Haibun, July 2017, vol 13 no 2

Tanka Prose

The Singer

For years, I couldn't remember its name—that tasteful little nightclub tucked away from the bustle of shopping and restaurants. Intimate. Nothing ostentatious, simple wooden tables. Dark but not too dark. Safe but holding a measure of intrigue. Meant for people like me.

The resident musician sang and played nearly nonstop, curled around his guitar as if he were bound to it. (I rarely ever saw him stand up.) The song selection: whatever was popular back then, mellow but not too mellow. Notes and voice hinting of warm butterscotch.

An unlikely friend of mine with exotic island looks once spoke of him with an air of familiarity. "You know him?" I asked, as if he were a god and I a mere mortal-girl. "Sure," she responded between characteristic long drags on her cigarette. Of course, she and I lived in different lanes.

Fast forward: In time, the name of the place would come to me. Then, after a computer search to learn about its fate, I would stumble across the singer's name; another search would instantly yield current-day photos of him. In mere minutes, I would learn that he had landed himself on a list of registered sex offenders and, also, that he had been deemed a man of God, though I had no way of knowing which label had come first.

among shadows

at the trendy bars

I'd sit hoping

some young man would find me

yet hoping he wouldn't

_____________

The tanka "among shadows" was previously published in Landfall: Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka, 2007.

Golden-winged; setting up

golden-winged

a small bird skims

the ocean,

dipping into the blue

for bits of sustenance

~ Southern Caribbean Sea

setting up

for a Sunday jazz brunch

in the park—

overhead, the notes

of wild parakeets

~ Ft Lauderdale, Florida

—both in Atlas Poetica, #22, Summer 2015

Milestone birthday

milestone birthday—

in a Thinker pose  

on the couch  

he whiles away the time  

with classical music

—The Bamboo Hut, Vol. 1, No. 2, January 2014

Oops: I meant to post this last month, when it was "his" birthday (not that my readers would know that, of course!).

As we listen

as we listen

to Bonnie Raitt’s blues

     somewhere between

finding her man and losing him

my husband’s hand touches mine

—Fire Pearls 2, 2013

He helped the artist design this pair of hippos on the couch by suggesting to the shopkeeper that hearts be added. The artist liked the idea!

A nativity

a nativity

small enough to fit

in a matchbox ...

I turn the key

to play Silent Night

—GUSTS, #18, Fall/Winter 2013

Where Franz Gruber composed the beloved song Silent Night

During our Danube trip last month, I perked up as I heard the announcement that we were passing by Arnsdorf (Austria), where schoolteacher, church caretaker, and organist Franz Gruber composed the melody for Silent Night. When I was around 13, one of my grandmothers gave me a small book about Gruber and the history of that familiar Christmas carol. So, we quickly clicked away with our cameras. 

P.S. See the preceding post for a picture of the music box described above.

Tiny skaters

tiny skaters

twirling round a pond . . .
undiscovered
until now, this world
inside a music box

—Skylark, 1:1, Summer 2013

Pictured above, the miniature music box I bought last December—from a shop in Illinois that I visited with my sister and her kids. In the tanka, though, I'm actually describing one of the other similar music boxes they had for sale; maybe I should buy it next. I wonder if my fascination with things delicate and diminutive will ever leave me.

Playing scales

playing scales
day after day
the ritual
of her reprimand
with every wrong note

—Presence, #48, June 2013

Not necessarily "Back to School," but I figured it might be close enough.

The Music Room (tanka prose)

It was her punishment for chatting after "lights out." Marched out of the bedroom by Mrs. M., one of the watchful house staff members responsible for the boarding students' care, she knew full well where she'd be taken. There, she'd spend time alone, in pitch blackness, to contemplate her transgression. 

how she'd hide 

from Bach and Mozart—

their busts 

on the piano

their ghosts in the dark 

~ Girls school, Surrey, England

—Atlas Poetica, No. 14, Spring 2013 

Note: For those who missed my other school-related tanka prose, posted earlier, here's a link: Ad Vitam Paramus.

Whistling Dixie

whistling Dixie

in a land of cotton—

songs we learned

in grammar school

when all we knew was white

—A Hundred Gourds, March 2013

I set out to write a post here about the evolution of the above tanka. But after a sentence or two, it appeared my words might be giving birth to a tanka prose piece instead. So, I'll keep working on that and see where it takes me. 

Can any of your relate to my poem, I wonder? Naive, strange times; though, really, all times may be strange, especially when looking back on them. I still have vague recollections of being on a stage, preparing for some sort of elementary school pageant during which we surely sang the "Dixie" song (also named "I Wish I Was in Dixie," etc.), no doubt with gusto and lack of understanding. The song has a complex history, certain details disputable, including authorship and intention; there have been many variations of its lyrics. Through my reading, I've learned of Dixie's immense popularity in both the South and the North; it was a favorite of President Lincoln's. A catchy tune, but I think I can leave it in the past. The possible origins of the nickname "Dixie" (with respect to region) also are worth reading about.

The needle

the needle 
skips across tracks
on a warped LP 
.....songs in my life
.....I cannot replay

—Ribbons, Autumn 2012

A friend gave me three or four wonderful LPs many years ago. For some reason, I left them in my car, which was parked at the top, i.e., open-air level, of a parking garage. Brilliant, I know. (Vinyl melts.)

LPs? I must be old. Today's my birthday.

Radio tuned; the heartbreak

radio tuned
to Texas country,
its lonesome cowboys—
my nondescript accent
briefly switches to twang

—red lights, June 2012

the heartache
in those country tunes—
whole cornfields died
before my own heart
would grow back again

—red lights, June 2012