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