Selected Tanka from Woodnotes

#7, Autumn 1990

an underground note

regarding the earthquake last year:

i don’t want to tell you

my recollections—

or even the truth!

Brent Partridge

Winter dreaming

of pruning the branches

picking the fruit

forgetting

how blossoms fall.

Catalina Cariaga

#12, Spring 1992

The news of her death

came like the sound

of a screen door

on a broken hinge

banging in the wind

Dave Sutter

#13, Summer 1992

In the gray warehouse

by a jumble of boxes

a pot of daisies—

can you see them making

their small meadow in the sun?

Paul O. Williams

#14, Autumn 1992

our children’s laughter

until we reach grandma’s old house

in dappled shade

rooms filled with mouse scat

and dust

Jean Jorgensen

#15, Winter 1992

a moment

of plain talk

and suddenly

I hear the birds

so clearly

Ellie Friedland

[Tanka Award (first place) winner in 1992 HPNC International Tanka Contest; Francine Porad, judge]

the old trunk—

my mother’s silk wedding dress

coming apart

photograph of my parents

when they were in love

Yvonne Hardenbrook

[Second Honorable Mention in 1992 HPNC International Tanka Contest; Francine Porad, judge]

#16, Spring 1993

I have come upon

love poems in a strange hand

to my dead mother;

long disdainful of closeness

she was adored by someone

Yvonne Hardenbrook

#17, Summer 1993

[This issue marked the first time Woodnotes had a section labeled “Tanka,” with four poems]

the wind-blown clouds

lighten and darken

lighten and darken

the room

in which we argue

Brian Tasker

The rain dripping

from leaf to leaf

finds its way . . .

why do I think

the heavens are unclear?

Dave Sutter

#18, Autumn 1993

for years we sat

together on this love seat

where sea gulls now perch . . .

so broad a view of the ocean

from this hillside dump

Christopher Herold

#19, Winter 1993

In the morning light

before he awakens—

my kiss

leaves a dewdrop

on his lips.

June Moreau

spring walk

with the rocky gurgle

of a mountain stream—

when it went underground

I missed you

David Rice

#20, Spring 1994

We can tell

from the bank of low clouds

over the hills

the westerlies will blow away

all the cherry blossoms

Pat Shelley

[her first tanka appearance in Woodnotes]

her slow cane

taps a rhythm

on the sidewalk . . .

at hopscotch marks

she hesitates

Mark Arvid White

like some modern

Aphrodite

risen from turbulent seas,

this Japanese along the beach

combing her long black hair

Sanford Goldstein

[his first tanka appearance in Woodnotes]

art opening—

at the back of the gallery

our long handshake

as our friends take their time

introducing us

Cherie Hunter Day

#21, Summer 1994

A single strand

of the spider’s web

sets heaven and earth apart—

what need is there

for more poetry?

Dave Sutter

cookie crumbs

on the front of your sweater—

I missed the conversation,

wondering who will

brush them away

Cherie Hunter Day

small spider

in its morning web

patiently still

      the way you held me

      during the quake

Helen J. Sherry

my daughter

picks us up at the airport

loans us her car—

all the trees along the road

are leafing out

David Rice

#22, Autumn 1994

[the first “tanka prose” to appear in Woodnotes, untitled]

One evening of late summer I sat on the lawn watching the firefly hunters in the adjacent meadow. As twilight faded, a full moon silvered the willows by the pond. Here and there, the flicker of fireflies, the flutter of small figures in light clothing. Now and then, children’s voices rising out of moonmist.

The experience of the moment became the subject for a painting, but summer was long over before I completed it. While painting, the world of the painting became my reality—I wandered among patches of blue moonlight, fireflies lighted my way through crimson shadows. And when, at last, I looked up from my work, the leaves had fallen, the meadow grown brown. The children had gone back to school, and the fireflies had vanished.

Through the studio window

grey light of late autumn—

on my palette

rich blues and greens to finish

a summer landscape

Patricia Neubauer

the fierce din

of pots and pans banging

in the kitchen

. . . I was unfaithful

in her dream

Zane Parks

alone tonight

only the sound

of waves

and the distant beam

of the lighthouse

Ce Rosenow

back from the beach—

delicate sea shells

collected with care

lying in shards

on the car’s carpet

Zane Parks

#23, Winter 1994

No one comes now

to the autumn rose garden—

in the pavilion

where the brides of summer posed

an old woman sits knitting

Patricia Neubauer

Do you have

a sweetheart?

ask his mother

with Alzheimer’s

in front of his wife.

Alexis K. Rotella

when I entered

my mother’s room

on my last visit home,

I had to repeat my name,

I had to tell her I was her son

Sanford Goldstein

it is woven

into the tapestry

of the meadow

with blue threads of rain—

the wild iris

June Moreau

[First Place winner in 1994 HPNC International Tanka Contest; Dave Sutter, judge]

Dear brother,

we have so much

to say to one another

but it will have to wait

until one of us is dying.

Alexis K. Rotella

[Second Place winner in 1994 HPNC International Tanka Contest; Dave Sutter, judge]

Soiled and creased

in the shape of his hand

his garden glove

left on the workbench

in the potting shed

Pat Shelley

[Third Place winner in 1994 HPNC International Tanka Contest; Dave Sutter, judge]

#24, Spring 1995

young couple

talking

in sign language . . .

cloud shadows

cross the distant ridge

Mark Rutter

hand in hand

we dash into a birch grove,

each leaf trembles

at the slightest touch

of the spring rain

Cherie Hunter Day

in the morning

I wonder how to tell her

I’m married

when she turns to me saying—

I have something to tell you

Zane Parks

who is this old man

boldly staring back at me

from placid water

I reach to touch his face

he disappears in wrinkles

Hank Dunlap

my father’s hands

so much kinder

than my mother’s

I kiss this girl

with the deep voice

Chuck Easter

hairbrush idling

I admire

this small mark—

homage your mouth paid

to my throat

Nasira Alma