UNDERTOW TANKA REVIEW: ISSUE # 6
Contents Page: July page
1. Featured Tanka …………………………. 2. Tanka Sequence …………………………. 3. TankaArt and Haiga . . …………………. 4. Tanka …………………………. 5. Editor’s Tanka …………………………. 6. Haiku ………………………….
FEATURED TANKA
Debbie Strange / Canada
the breathof a chimney hangsin the frosty airso many questionsyou left unanswered
TANKA SEQUENCE
Steve Klepetar
Flambeau River Tanka Ladysmith Wisconsin, 1976 Into the Flambeauhe waded, up past his knees,then bent, pulling atwelve-pack from the depthslike a trophy fish. He passed us each ariver dripping can. “Jesus,that’s cold!” We sat downbeneath the swellingtrees, as May wind blew. Were we so young then,watching the ancientriver bend around willows..Rocks broke water’s skin,scarred by endless flow.
TANKA ART AND HAIGA
Debbie Strange / Canada
Caroline Skanne / UK
TANKA
Anna Cates / USA
after spring rainsat the end of the branchan inchworm teeters—I stand on the edgeverging on epiphany
a beach boy
searches seashellsfor Venus—will she arise with hairflowing like sea weed?
spring strutbeneath the purple smokea blackbird wearsblue sheen upon his backleather jacket attitude
dark skywet stars rainingwinter sleet—stay beside the fireoutside it is cold, so cold
scratching—I squirt a gray straythrough the screen—forgive me this house is fullI cannot take you in
Anna Cates’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Acorn, Modern Haiku, Haiku Journal, Shamrock, Frogpond, Under the Basho, Cattails, Presence, Atlas Poetica, Ginyu, Asahi Haikuist Network, Ardea, Bamboo Hut, Taj Mahal, Mainichi, Hedgerow, 7x20, and others. She teaches graduate creative writing for Southern New Hampshire University online and maintains several other part time positions. She holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing and several other advanced degrees related to English studies. A nature lover and ailurophile, she resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two cats, Freddie and Christine.
Caroline Skanne / UK
wehold handswithsecrets hidden underfluttering eyelids
ink-stained,this simple longing --to belongif only to thismoment
there isso much potentialtonight --
our moon fillingwith wishes
zigzag clovermy path through lifea meadowof hopes & dreamshalf-fulfilled
storm clouds ...a lonely daisy tucksher petals closewe protect ourselves in this worldthe best way we know how
Dave Read, Canada
a leaf caughtin a wind eddythe thoughtsI let go ofkeep spinning back
undera blanket of latespring snowthe hopes we'd hadfor the flower bed
at the endof a long nightof bluesLucille stillwhispering in my ear
- for B.B. King
he looks at melike I'm from anotherplanet -in his headphonesBruno Mars
still lightat 10 o'clocka lemonslice wedged onthe rim of my cup
flipping downthe dark side of the toastshe smilesto assure himthat everything's alright
pointingmy way back tohis childhoodthe arrowhead he hadfound on the farm
greying likethe promise of rainI hidemy aging face beneath the shadow of a hat
defyingthe fingers thatplucked itthe leaf in my handsprings back to shape
witha splash of laughterthe rocksthe children throwinto the lake
Mary Davila / USA
danglingfrom the church ceilinga spiderweaves lifeinto her funeral
viewing the moon
from another perspectivefaraway from homeat last I seewhat my mother endured
the wordthat eluded mefor three days comes to light…my Crucifix speaks to me
my eyesdance with the starsin the city of angelsthe moonsmiles back at me
tremorssketch meinto seclusion…will it evergo away?
the coquisings to his whistle…flirtingin the moonlightwith my husband
a butterfly
loses its way... memories of my childhood scatter into the abyss
Mary Davila, along with her husband, Frank, enjoy retirement in Buffalo, NY. She relies on her faith for everything, including her writing. Mary started writing free verse in 2000, then she began to explore haiku and haiga in 2006. Her work has been published in numerous online journals. In 2014, she started writing tanka, which has become her main focus. Mary enjoys being with her grandchildren, photography and making rosaries. Her website is www.petalsinthelight.com .
Margaret Saine / USA
quiet distant birdabandons us to silenceonly the air speaksthe flowing air speaks through usand air becomes our language
Rajandeep Garg / India
treasureof sunshine and raina blossomhides gentlyon her chest sundescends all redawhile my eavesi know we are bothfew sighs from evanescence bloodflames the seaas sunburies amidstthe eager waves past elda solitude of monsoonsa budseems to blossommy abandoned garden shesmiled finallyher lips pinkunfurled like a rosewith a scent of approval
sifted raysof moonlight tint-
Sun dripping gentlythrough the rifted overcastcrowns gold on the king mountain souvenirscrested on wingsbutterfly flauntsdalliances of noontidewalking proudly on wind
moon crestedamidst the starry ablazea supple windwhen on the blue lakesky trembles in fright and faze an old rillreflects the spiderabseilingon buoyed flakes of huskgently with a rope of silk
the pondmakes the ripened wheatburn in flameswith the windrippling my desires
Debbie Strange / Canada
they teased mewhen I was a girlmy voicedeeper than any boy'smy chest full of thunder
a spoonfulof nuclear medicinebittersweettoo late to save my brothersnot too late to heal the world
that phone callall those years agoI still seea serpent writhingbetween her fingers
the breathof a chimney hangsin the frosty airso many questionsyou left unanswered
an old friendunable to say the wordshands me a notetissue-thin and fadedhe thinks he might be gay
Rebecca Drouilhet
a cocoondeep in winter...who knows nowwhat shape this promise may holdor where wings might take it
the old moonrises again over the cityby the sea...so many footprints washed awayso many yet to come
like Icarushe flies too close to the sun...
beneath the shadowsof disappearing wingsthe sea, the churning sea
S. Black
good while it lastedthe path foundby accidentthat lead nowherein particular
outside the old placei saw your mother watering hanging basketsi looked overshe looked away
sunday matineewhispers in the best roomwaitingan eternityfor the priest to arrive
in the meantimeall over the radiosomeone in america
once famousalready dead
our day in the sun25 storeys highfor onceabove it allor so we thought
night train home oppositethe man with jokeson his socks
after the rainthe neighbor’s Zen gardenhalf-realizedin the gutterlike all the rest
failed suicidehe was never any goodwith lacesso sayshis mother
down in the streetsmall comfort breakcoughing up his guts
she running on pastfit as
rush hourundergroundthe strangerin my faceand his back story
Suzanne Pearman
my face is blue frominhaling you instead ofoxygen. you area sunbeam cupped in my hands,slipping ghost-like through fingers
TANKA PROSE
Richard Diebenkorn, Ocean Park #140*
Just as my fingers on these keysMake music, so the self-same soundsOn my spirit make a music, too. — Wallace Stevens
What we can understand from these paintings is the recovered presence of Richard Diebenkorn himself. It’s as if a movie projector had held each frame slightly longer than usual, doubly shown before it clicked on to the next (the nude portrayed in motion on her descending staircase). This painting traces the path of its own construction; how the painter lunged forward with his inspired brush, hesitated, began rubbing out, and then withdrew to assess his progress. We apprehend the body of the artist mapped in its elaborate dance, implicit in traces of his drawing, manifest atop remembered pirouettes. two kinds of laborhave left their marks; a field handdumb behind the plowturned these green and blue meadowskept it all symmetrical he drew a red linelike a country road down the leftonce you’ve seeninto this abyss, you’ll cling
to any flotsam around There are further temptations here to find real, recognizable things; it could be downtown Dallas, till you look closer, and you see an abstract of the transom window in his studio. A figure of speech, that window haunts the Ocean Parks, its lines and cursory angles an archetypal template, but not the subject. Perhaps it was always the first thing drawn, but then obliterated. Maybe that’s the message. I like blue shadowscast along imagination’screvices, he stoodup on a stool or ladderto get those lines exact see the dream windowin your mind, the lineamentsburned into your braineach spontaneous gestureechoes the image stored there Ruled lines besmirch the virgin canvas and embarrassed by their simple-mindedness the artist repents all but their memory. The big green and the big blue go on thinly to remind us this was not always the only moment. They are like windows how they function, letting through glimpses of something deeper, but they open only on yesterday. how in this placedid the rambling finally halt?the weight of my eyepulls me down into the greensee me, way down to the right? what figuration did
was lead us ever farther insprung painting’s trapso we’d have to think ourselvesonce the likeness fades The brain wants it to be someplace. And it is, just not any place around here. The lines and color that Edward Hopper would have made a real ghost town from, are only teasing here; thus far and no farther! They show us how to make and make us want objects, places, persons, and then they subtly assemble the regular mechanics of all that. But, hardly have they begun, than these resemblances dissipate like smoke. so we hovernear some unremembered placecertain we could fixthe parts in a proper ordergiven time and liberty what we rememberwas never there except in dreamswe now connectwith thinnest threads, in loosened knotstied with different intentions
Coda
this picture is bigtaller than a man could reach it demands the airin a room, summons our eyesmakes them forget all they’ve have just seenso they wander back and forthtaking notessee where he has lingered some
or where his brush rushed along
HAIKU
Rebecca Drouihet / USA
blue rainso many new ripplesin this old pond
Minnesota museumthe jade cricket cage
full of country nights
autumn twilight...our reflections ripplingin the wishing pool
witching moon...shadows of a townthat used to be
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