More tanka, please


Good news. The tanka poems keep coming!

This poem was penned by Auburn McCanta, an Arizona writer and reluctant, though award-winning, poet.


Soon this summer

A humming desert
Lifts its skirt of sand to kneel
Its prayers scorch the eye
Rabbits run from grazing hawks
Scorpions waltz in the moon

Morning comes early
Midday wears its beggar’s coat
A dirt rag of sky
Summer’s so close I can feel
It’s breath going up my shirt

My skin is a heat
Air thermals rise in the throat
Orange blossoms dangle
Hope, yet midnight I’m shaking
Scorpions out from my shoe

- Auburn McCanta

Tanka time

Last week I extolled the pleasures of tanka, the 5 line Japanese lyric poem. Tanka Online provides a great overview. I encouraged others to tanka, and share their work here.

I'm pleased to post a poem by Marjorie Power, of Corvallis, Oregon. She offers a tanka mosaic, a series of tankas linked together in mood, tone and story. She strays from the traditional count of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables per line, and maintains instead 31 syllables per stanza. This poem is soon to be published in the The Hawaii Pacific Review.

Spring Dusk, Yachats

Salal blooms –
pale pink droplets, red stems.
Its leaves go gray with fungus.
My cousin, too, is uniquely
beautiful and unhappy.

If you love someone
who has everything
but still sounds hollow,
after sunset listen only to the ocean.
Gather shadows.

Try a narrow path
used by rabbits and deer.
Disappear among shore pines
and Sitka spruce. Be your absence.
Be present to that.

Return to the beach
where the ocean grows dark
and the tide delivers your name.
Where the hollow might stroll
and the new moon rises.

Along the rocky trail,
a blast of fragrance
offered by wild roses
while their cultivated sisters
hunker down, play it safe.

— Marjorie Power

Coincidentally, I am writing spring, too. I stray a bit from the traditional line count (and take comfort in first knowing the rules, and then breaking them). I like the idea of linked tankas, the way in which they stand strong as one stanza, and gather even more strength as a group. I'm not sure, with these, if they are better individually or linked. It wasn't until the end of the week — after I had written on, about and through gloomy weather — that I realized a theme.

Pulling Spring

Beauty surrounds
I press against wind and cold
fight against ocean
no longer see abundance
just this lashing fatigue

This static grey day
wears away the art in me
all color scrubbed
faith fades, milky and weak
is this winter’s gloom, or mine?

The sky stays in place
everyday, like a job, shows
up, pays attention
seeks no answers beyond the
ether of the everyday

Drew Myron

Burst, blue, blooms

Crocus burst from damp earth
moody sky their only demand
how little it takes
framed by light and hope
to close winter’s heavy door

Sky turns from slate to shine
I want to wear this weather
Spring, I say, show me
a bit of blue, a dash of warm
She opens a closet of blooms

Drew Myron

Revision joy

The Thursday night sessions with the Young Writers have taken a new hue. Preparing to publish our annual book, we have moved from free-write to tight-write and it’s been a bumpy transition.

Rework and revise don't invite joy. Work sounds like, well, work. And so we resist. We don’t want to work. We want to sing with words, to feel and release and breathe with relief. We don’t want to wrangle and second-guess.

To the teens, I say: Editing is part of the art and process of good writing. You don’t wake up one morning and suddenly run a race. You practice and train. You slog through the rain and cold and move your body against sleep and sleet until your breath is easy, your legs long and lean.

They hear: Writing is work.

I don’t know how to create an appetite for editing. I look to other writers for back-up:

Wally Lamb, bestselling author, says:
Learn to love revision. Listen to suggestions about what you might add, cut, reposition, and clarify in your work-in-process. Welcome such feedback with gratitude and humility, returning to your words with sharper insight. Make mistakes, lots of them, revising draft after draft of your continuing story.

Kim Addonizio, poet, says:
If you don’t think your work needs revision, here’s a tip: Don’t try to be a poet. You will never — I mean never — be any good.

For a bit, we are buoyed by encouraging words. Our initial disdain turns to inadequacy: Where to start? What to delete? What to keep? We need direction, guides, rules.

There’s no lack of writing guides, but where are the can-do books on the art of revision? I’m not talking Strunk and White’s Elements of Style. Grammar guides are abundant. I’m looking for an encouraging, practical, you-can-do-it guide to take us from raw goods to polished gems.

It's a slippery thing, writing, editing, art. It's not paint-by-numbers, I know. The joy of creation is in finding your way. But surely there are rules we can follow and then, with knowledge, break.

What's your process? How do you begin, and end? For you, is it all instinct and choice, or are there defined rules and routes?

Tanka anyone?

long winter night . . .
my mind wanders back
to a northern stream
that once answered
my every question

— Jeanne Emrich

The tanka has me rapt.

For days now, my every experience searches for a short form verse that will compress, nuance and make it mean more.

Do you tanka? Cousin to the haiku, tanka is a 5 line lyric poem with Japanese roots. Like haiku, a tanka poem offers concrete images, understatement and control. A tanka has a specific form but — here’s the good part — the rules are a bit elastic.

Traditional tanka requires a 31 syllable count with lines of 5-7-5-7-7. But the modern American tanka allows for fudging.

Tanka Online tells it best: The contemporary tanka in English may be described as typically an untitled free-verse short poem having anywhere from about twelve to thirty-one syllables arranged in words and phrases over five lines, crafted to stand alone as a unitary, aesthetic whole—a complete poem. Excepting those written in a minimalist style, a tanka is about two breaths in length when read aloud.

“The tanka aesthetic is broad and all-encompassing,” encourages poet/instructor Jeanne Emrich.

With an anyone-can-do-it spirit, the site offers a Quick Start Guide to Writing Tanka. It’s a manual, an art form, a get-up-and-go guide!

I like the attitude. And then I found Jack Cantey. He’s writing a rush of tankas, posting five to six poems on his blog each week.

That Erodes

I’m done with it all,
he says, drunk on wine and paint.
Winter is a force
that erodes like wind and waves.
It eats us in creeping bites.

— Jack Cantey

Inspired by Jeanne and Jack, I thought I was ready to tanka. I wrote and counted. Rewrote, recounted. Turns out the seemingly simple short form is deceptively — and wonderfully — complicated. I like the challenge.

How about you? Have you tried a tanka? Send me your work. I’ll post them here, and we’ll toast to tanka — the new, old, short form poem.

Instructions

Proving that simple is good, these easy-to-use instructions are courtesy of Anthony Burrill, a designer and illustrator working in print, moving image, interactive and web-based projects. The aphorism above was created for Wallpaper magazine. See more of Burrill's work here.

Is this a message?

Poems find me. They work their way across a page, my screen, sneak into my home and settle in, waiting for me to pay attention.

Today, Starfish by Eleanor Lerman, jumped out. I wish I had written it. Good work stirs in me the lovely ache of appreciation and envy. Do you feel this, too? The last line in the first stanza is so just right: is this a message, finally, or just another day?

Starfish

Eleanor Lerman

This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who says, Last night,
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?

Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.

And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.

Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life’s way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won’t give you smart or brave,
so you’ll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.

So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.

From Our Post Soviet History Unfolds by Eleanor Lerman,
published by Sarabande Books.

Sit still or soar

Fred — my friend and colleague at Seashore Family Literacy — and I enjoy a friendly dispute. I say poetry comes alive when read aloud. I want to hear the words soar across the room, dip in the corners, and circle back in a way that sweeps me up and leaves me a bit dizzy and sated.

Fred likes to absorb the poem as it behaves on the page, where he can digest each word and its place on the blank canvas of paper. I see his point.

But I’m greedy, I want it all.

Now, with Linebreak, we can both be happy. Linebreak is an online journal publishing one poem a week, complete with audio versions so visitors can both read the words and savor the sound.

The site combines a clever name with quality work and a clean design. For those who want to sit still, and for those who want to soar with sound, Linebreak fills a need and greed.

Once daily

I like Amie Hollmann’s work (at right). As an artist and writer, she shows style. But even more, she’s got commitment.

Her Verse Project is a daily creation of art. She’s made a one-year commitment to create a daily expression of faith on a postcard-size canvas.


I’ve been thinking a great deal about commitment and marveling at the various demonstrations of creative dedication.

The prolific poet William Stafford is famed for awakening at 4am each day to pen a poem. In his 79 years, he wrote 67 volumes of poetry.

Earlier this month, as I was berating my own writing practice (as in, Why don’t you write a poem a day? What’s wrong with you?) I received a Valentine note in the (real, old-fashioned) mail. It was from Carrie, a client-turned-friend, who wrote that her New Year’s resolution was to write a message by hand daily. I was that day's recipient. I love this idea.

Much like Amie’s Verse Project, Carrie’s daily commitment provides pleasure for both the creator and the audience. Perhaps this is the secret: When we create for ourselves, we make others happy, too.

Judyth Hill offers a simple and profound perspective on creative commitment. In the poem Take It from the Top (from her book Black Hollyhock, First Light) she writes:

Writing a poem a day is difficult.
But if the world can start from scratch daily,
how hard is it to notice?

And the crowd cheered 'Yes!'

“The best medicine is not Prozac. It’s applause and accomplishment.”

— Regie Cabico, a three-time National Poetry Slam finalist who teaches workshops at the Bellevue Inpatient Adolescent Unit in New York City. Cabico has been featured on two seasons of HBO’s Def Poetry Jam and his work appears in over 30 anthologies.

Capricious creativity

Feeling daunted by the creative process? Don't fear, says Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love. Creativity isn't in you, but on loan to you.

Gilbert has thought long and hard about creative genius. Here, she gives a funny and lifting talk about the "maddening capriousness of the creative process."

Filmed at TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) in February, the annual conference brings together the world's most fascinating thinkers and doers, who are challenged to give the talk of their lives — in just 18 minutes.

A gallery, a puppet, and more

How will Forecast inspire you? We asked the question but I’m not sure we were fully prepared for the response. Forecast, the word-art pairing that began as a collaboration of my poems with Tracy Weil’s paintings, has stirred unexpected elaborations.

Created first as an art exhibition, Forecast showed last fall to enthusiastic crowds at Weilworks Gallery in Denver.

Then it was an exhibition book, in vivid four-color, hardcover glory.

Then it was an online gallery, offering links to the book, poems and poster prints.

Then it was a Fan Club, drawing Facebook applause.

With Forecast, Tracy and I aimed to blend the creative arts to reach an audience of people who wouldn’t normally appreciate or gravitate toward art or poetry. Again and again, we asked: How will Forecast inspire you?

And the answer is: Forecast has now gone nutty, with an endearing puppet providing a dose of literary levity.

What’s next? An Ice Capades interpretation? A showing at the Disney World art gallery (and is there such a place?). Forecast is now hitting the road, looking to drop in for a chat, a film, a showing near you. Have you room? time? desire?

Snort, sigh, read & thrive

We’re renegades, I recently told a friend, making art that blurs defined lines.


We combine visual art with word art. We seek to give art air, offering paintings and poems to people and places in unexpected ways. Such a blending is not an especially unusual idea but still I sometimes feel out of step with writers and artists taking more traditional routes.

We’re traveling a pebbled path, I tell my friend, but we’re not alone on the trail.

Elizabeth Bradfield, editor and founder of Broadsided Press, is right here with us. Broadsided is “busting poems out of their perfect-bound covers, to free art from frames, to bring literature and art to the streets.”

Every month, BroadsidedPress.org publishes a new literary/visual collaboration available as a single-sheet PDF to print, enjoy and share — for free.

"Vectors" then print the sheets, called broadsides, and post them in public places, such as cafes, hallways, and bathroom stalls.

“Before paperbacks and pocket books, before blogs, there were broadsides,” explains Bradfield, a writer and designer. “Let's put words out there for people to snort at, sigh over, argue with, and read.”

Vectors are situated across the globe. I’m a vector! And you can be a vector, too. In fact, a few states are woefully vector-less. Alabama, Delaware, Hawaii, Idaho, North Dakota, New Mexico, Rhode Island and Wyoming need volunteers to spread the joy of words and art combined.

Consider this a call to action, to artists, to writers, to creatives of all sorts: Take to the streets. Share art and thrive!

More reasons to write

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Write Free Month-Long Playshop
A fun, self-paced Write Free Playshop begins in March. The authors of Write Free: Attracting the Creative Life offer a four-week course for only $19.95.
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Poetry for the People – Scholarship Available
Poetry for the People, an email class led by Sage Cohen, starts March 11. Act fast and you may enjoy the class for free (normally $199.). Scholarship applications are due February 15.
Go here.

I am . . .

I love new words. Words that aren’t words at all but when you hear them you think, Yes, of course.


In the student writing groups, we collect words. Our favorite words line the walls to create a playground of possibility.

We write I am poems. This fun and easy form combines images and actions, punctuated with a declaration. In writing these poems we create and define ourselves anew, every line, every time. Youngsters (and adults, too) take to this form quickly. Most of us like to write about ourselves, and I am poems give us permission to play with our words.

Here, a few lines, from a nine-year-old poet:

I am loveful.
I am wind.
I am Mother Nature’s friend.
I am a secret.
I am a hoper.
I am a lover of pie.

When she asked me if loveful was a word, I hesitated. It could be, it should be, it’s such a sweet and, well, loving word. By the time she read I am a hoper, I was cheering along with her. Is it a word? I’m not sure. I don’t care. I want to be a hoper, too!

By chance, By poem

Some days I am asleep and slog through the weight of darkness, expecting and (no surprise!) finding no chance for change. But when I am wide awake, synchronicity is everywhere. I stumble into chance encounters and collide into unexpected joy.

Recently, a friend shared with me a lovely book of poems by Mari L'Esperance, who, it turns out, is a friend of a mutual friend. (We live in a Facebook world in which everyone is connected by the tenuous thread of knowing everything and nothing about those we claim as ‘friends’).

I was touched by the gift. I had just returned from a visit to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and still felt a glowing appreciation for the city’s hard-working history and rugged beauty. As I paged through the book, I landed on this poem — featuring the iconic rivers that run through Pittsburgh’s heart — first.

Synchronicity, it seems to me, made apparent by a poem.


As Told by Three Rivers

Eight a.m, up too late the night before
learning the nose and throat, the bones
of the hands. Rounding a corner
on the seventh floor of Eye & Ear, the view
from the window takes you by surprise:
the city of Pittsburgh fanned out before you,
its verdant wedge of land softened
by the arms of three rivers, their names alone
like music — Monongahela, Allegheny, Ohio —
threading their slow eternal way home,
knowing. You think of Naipaul’s book, how
that distant mythic river in that distant
unnamed place reminds you somehow
of these three rivers meeting, the purpose
in their joined ambition as it should be,
how their journey tells the same story,
a story of becoming, of knowing one’s place
in the world. Standing there at the window
you see how everything that’s come before
has brought you here, how it all makes sense,
the three timeless rivers moving forward,
deliberate and without questions, telling the story
of the life you have chosen, of the life
you could not help but choose.

Mari L'Esperance
from The Darkened Temple
Winner of the 2007 Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry

Pity the apostrophe

The apostrophe is a troublesome little bugger, but to eliminate it entirely?


Birmingham, England's second largest city, is leaving punctuation purists across the globe incredulous with a decision to drop all apostrophes. I like that grammar can cause such a stir, and I really appreciate the snappy writing by reporter Meera Selva:

LONDON – On the streets of Birmingham, the queen's English is now the queens English.

England's second-largest city has decided to drop apostrophes from all its street signs, saying they're confusing and old-fashioned.

But some purists are downright possessive about the punctuation mark.

It seems that Birmingham officials have been taking a hammer to grammar for years, quietly dropping apostrophes from street signs since the 1950s. Through the decades, residents have frequently launched spirited campaigns to restore the missing punctuation to signs denoting such places as "St. Pauls Square" or "Acocks Green."

This week, the council made it official, saying it was banning the punctuation mark from signs in a bid to end the dispute once and for all.

Councilor Martin Mullaney, who heads the city's transport scrutiny committee, said he decided to act after yet another interminable debate into whether "Kings Heath," a Birmingham suburb, should be rewritten with an apostrophe.

"I had to make a final decision on this," he said Friday. "We keep debating apostrophes in meetings and we have other things to do."

Mullaney hopes to stop public campaigns to restore the apostrophe that would tell passers-by that "Kings Heath" was once owned by the monarchy.

"Apostrophes denote possessions that are no longer accurate, and are not needed," he said. "More importantly, they confuse people. If I want to go to a restaurant, I don't want to have an A-level (high school diploma) in English to find it."

But grammarians say apostrophes enrich the English language.

"They are such sweet-looking things that play a crucial role in the English language," said Marie Clair of the Plain English Society, which campaigns for the use of simple English. "It's always worth taking the effort to understand them, instead of ignoring them."

Mullaney claimed apostrophes confuse GPS units, including those used by emergency services. But Jenny Hodge, a spokeswoman for satellite navigation equipment manufacturer TomTom, said most users of their systems navigate through Britain's sometime confusing streets by entering a postal code rather than a street address.

She said that if someone preferred to use a street name — with or without an apostrophe — punctuation wouldn't be an issue. By the time the first few letters of the street were entered, a list of matching choices would pop up and the user would choose the destination.

A test by The Associated Press backed this up. In a search for London street St. Mary's Road, the name popped up before the apostrophe had to be entered.

There is no national body responsible for regulating place names in Britain. Its main mapping agency, Ordnance Survey, which provides data for emergency services, takes its information from local governments and each one is free to decide how it uses punctuation.

"If councils decide to add or drop an apostrophe to a place name, we just update our data," said Ordnance Survey spokesman Paul Beauchamp. "We've never heard of any confusion arising from their existence."

To sticklers, a missing or misplaced apostrophe can be a major offense.

British grammarians have railed for decades against storekeepers' signs advertising the sale of "apple's and pear's," or pubs offering "chip's and pea's."

In her best-selling book "Eats, Shoots and Leaves," Lynne Truss recorded her fury at the title of the Hugh Grant-Sandra Bullock comedy "Two Weeks Notice," insisting it should be "Two Weeks' Notice."

"Those spineless types who talk about abolishing the apostrophe are missing the point, and the pun is very much intended," she wrote.

Off the wall, out of the book, into the world

. . . Poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them . . .

Naomi Shihab Nye
from Valentine for Ernest Mann

Poetry isn’t hiding anymore. Isn’t gathering dust in tomes of required reading (all those heavy Norton Anthologies breaking the backs of beleaguered students). Isn’t sitting in the back row, waiting for National Poetry Month when it can, albeit briefly, dance and sing and mean more than iambic this-and-that.

Poetry has a new gig. It’s bold and creative and — gasp! — commercial. Poetry sells, and that’s not so bad.

I’m heartened by recent marketing efforts that play with words and invite poetry to the creative party.

• Microsoft’s newest ad campaign features bold Blackout Poems seen in two-page spreads in dozens of national magazines this month. The form (sometimes called ‘found poetry’) has recently gained a loyal following, due in large part to the work of Texas writer and designer Austin Kleon. See his work here.

• Grey Goose Vodka is getting a word groove, too, with a full-page ad presenting a poetic toast:

A Toast

To the future
To hope
To home
To family
To good friends
To peace
To love
To a great year
To good times
To mistletoe
To seeing you soon
To all of us
To the two of us
To tonight
To last night
To a few days off
To new beginnings
To memories
To 2008
To 2009

• Even Safeway is going poetic. In many stores, the floral department is now clearly marked with large letters declaring Poetry in Bloom.

Wallflower no more, poetry is out, loud and proud. Have you found poetry in unexpected places, from unexpected people? What poems are playing near you?