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Dorothy McLaughlin
an appraisal by David Terelinck

Beverley George’s keen eye for high quality tanka ensures that every poem in issue 12 of Eucalypt is worthy of a Scribble Award or special mention. In doing so, Beverley ensures each person who has to pass the Award to a new recipient has an extremely difficult challenge in front of them. There are many exceptional tanka in Eucalypt issue 12 that are more than worthy of the Award. And these all appeared vividly on each subsequent reading of the journal. However, the one poem that kept drawing me back over and over was Dorothy McLaughlin’s tanka on page 7:

prayers
at their child’s deathbed –
the answer
that left his faith stronger
made her an atheist
                  Dorothy McLaughlin

For someone who is a lover of classical tanka, I felt this poem has it all . . . the classic structure of S/L/S/L/L format, no redundant words or phrases, and is a tanka where each line successively builds on the strength of the one before it to create a tanka that touches the heart, soul and mind. It is a tanka not easily forgotten, and has many subtle layers.

For me this tanka encapsulates three of the themes that classical Japanese tanka poets wrote about; it contains all the elements of love, loss and longing. Who could not be moved by the plight of devoted and loving parents praying at the side of their dying child? The love of parent for child is said to be one of the strongest and most motivational loves within the world.

And this very act of prayer and love at the deathbed gives such a visually strong image of the imminent loss they must prepare for. But beyond this physical loss of young life is also a loss of relationship; for we inherently know that husband and wife must drift apart if the poles of their faith are moving in vastly opposing directions. And then we see a spiritual loss for the wife . . . the death of her child, and a failure of prayer to be answered, “made her an atheist”. This careful selection of phrase suggests this wife was not an atheist before this event, and therefore there is an acute loss of relationship with her faith.

There is a desperate sense of longing evident within this poem. Longing for the prayers to be answered, longing for their child to live, perhaps the one with faith longs for a peaceful passing of their child, or from the other a longing to have a faith that sustains. One can also imagine a longing that many parents may experience in similar situations . . . that roles were reversed with them and their child.

The tanka opens with an expansive view due to the use of a single word of great strength, prayers. Prayers are open to everyone who chooses to use them, and can encompass an unending scope of requests from the insignificant to the profound. This gives every reader an entry point that pulls us immediately into the tanka; we all have the ability to pray. This view then very quickly narrows in line two as we are directed to the reason for the prayers – a dying child. The tanka again opens up in the last two lines to give us so much space that whole worlds now exist between the two parents. And this concept of faith and atheism ensures we are taken back to our starting point of prayers. In this manner the tanka has a sensitive elliptical quality that is highly satisfying to the reader.

On each reading I continue to find something new in this tanka to enjoy. And although this tanka leaves me breathless with its pain and raw emotion, it does so gently, without hubris or intrusion, without preaching or proselytising. This tanka continues to linger at each reading, and will remain a firm favourite with me for many years to come.

Many other tanka within this issue also deserve a special mention. Each of the following has moved me for different reasons. But what they all have in common is a genuine poetic lyricism that never fails to engage me, a sense of relationship within the tanka that I can easily relate to, a gentleness of thought and expression, and a sincerity of emotion of the lived journey.

oversewing
heather with wattle
I tack on
the soft tread of your feet,
your arm linked through mine

                  Kathy Kituai (page 26)


I can see no one
for miles on these wind-roamed moors
yet, these breaths
of incense, secondhand . . .
another’s rite, or refuge

                  Claire Everett (page 28)


blue mussels
bubble through shells
half open . . .
like dying, this wait
for an incoming tide

                  Carole MacRury (page 40)


if you were here
we’d take our tea
up on the roof
and set the world to right –
if only you were here

                  Anne Benjamin (page 41)

Congratulations to everyone in issue #12. It has been a joy to read everyone’s work, and it is a sincere privilege to pass the Award to Dorothy.

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Aubrie Cox
an appraisal by Rodney Williams

news
you’ve been dying
to share –
ice rearranges
in my glass
                  Aubrie Cox

Two people meet, over drinks, to chat. One of them is anxious to pass on news that seems personally devastating at first, only to take on other implications instead. In a further twist, such tidings provoke reactions from the listener which the bearer of bad news might never have anticipated ...

It would seem that the two characters featured in Aubrie Cox’s intriguing tanka enjoy a long-standing bond. Gender is not specified - nor is the exact status of their relationship. Probably friends, and most likely both female, they would appear not to have seen each other recently.

At first instance, the opening of “news” suggests that the poem’s speaker – whether Aubrie herself, or a constructed persona – is hearing grievous tidings, to the effect that the friend has just been diagnosed with a terminal illness: “news/ you’ve been dying”.

Instantly, however, that bleak possibility is given a lighter spin, via a clever and playful use of enjambment spanning into the third line, combined with a colloquial – as against literal – turn of phrase. Rather than being at death’s door, the bearer of news might have gossip about others – or a personal disclosure – which she (or he) is “dying/ to share”.

A genuine strength in so sparse yet rich a piece is the way in which this tanka invites us to hypothesise. One reading could involve this pair sharing a third acquaintance, with the first character desperate to convey sensational tidings – hot off the grapevine – about unfortunate developments in the life of that mutual friend. Such information is grim, prompting – at first reading – a feeling of sadness, as symbolised by “ice”: plainly a sense of coldness imbues the second stage of this tanka. Yet perhaps the deeper scenario being suggested might not be – once again – quite as simple as it initially appeared.

Maybe this chilliness denotes not so much sorrow in itself, as distaste at having been told devastating news in an insensitive way. This iciness of heart could be directed towards “you” – the teller of sad tales – as an embittered response to hurtful gossip. To look at this possibility from a different slant, we could identify a further complexity in this apparently simple poem by appreciating its symbolism, not only on an emotional level, but also on a perceptual one:

ice rearranges
in my glass

Across this tanka’s punctuated break, Aubrie Cox effects an adroit transition: implicit here – in so few words – is a good deal more than the notion that the news conveyed has had a chilling impact, as characterised by a traditional (indeed, oft-used) metaphor of ice.

We know that different types of lenses bend rays of light to varying extents, affecting what and how the human eye can see as a result. In a poem so spare in detail, the writer has opted to be explicit about the presence of not one but two substances that both have translucent, refracting properties: glass as well as ice.

The curved surface of a whisky tumbler is sure to distort beams of light, as will blocks of ice. Aubrie Cox pointedly shows how these ice-blocks shift about in their glass, rather than remaining still. Yet the poet is firm in her refusal to use a passive voice: she does not say that “ice is rearranged”. So frugal in its diction as to feel no need to say “ice rearranges itself”, the writing suggests that frozen blocks have not so much been jiggled around by the drinker’s hand, as they have become active – even reactive – of their own accord.

When ice-cubes move, the rays of light passing through them will be refracted differently. Again, if sorrowful news is conveyed too cheerily, this could likewise prompt an unexpected reaction – indeed, a new angle; a reassessment – in the form of distaste at insensitivity.

In addressing her associate directly as “you”, while referring to herself in the first person, Aubrie Cox confronts her audience, perhaps challenging us to reflect about whether we may have passed on a hot tale ourselves, only to become embarrassed when such gossip left our listeners cold. The poet’s key strategy is to suggest and yet withhold, rather than being explicit about what form the news in question might take, or which reactions it could trigger.

In this light, another interpretation presents itself. Perhaps two young women have agreed to meet for drinks, with one ecstatic at having recently formed a romantic attachment with a man known to them both. The trouble may be that the second woman had herself entertained hopes of finding love in this same quarter, whereas now all she can exhibit is feigned happiness for her friend, while her heart freezes over with a sorrow that must remain hidden.

Traditional in structure, lean in form, inferential in approach, this poem asks questions that it declines to answer – to its credit – exemplifying the simple yet complicated dictum that less is best. Aubrie Cox’s tanka – like all striking work in Japanese short-forms – is deftly crafted and suggestive; minimalist yet thought-provoking. What a pleasure it has been to appraise such poetry – “news” truly is the finest piece that I have discovered lately, in a genre long since dear to my spirit.


Rodney Williams

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John Quinnett
an appraisal by Aubrie Cox

dogs are buried
in the woods behind
our house—
please let's talk no more
about leaving

— John Quinnett     

One of the hardest things about leaving my childhood home was the fact that our family dog was buried in the backyard; it felt like we were leaving both the house and her behind. Aside from the triggering of my own personal memories and sentiments or even the feelings of any pet owner, the success of Quinnett's poem rests in the balance of being open and holding back. This tanka dares to provide what has the potential to be too much information; however its presentation and structure of information and shift from the first to the second half of the poem creates tension, and the unraveling mystery raises as many questions as it answers.

Declarative statements in short poetry can be a dangerous thing when not executed properly, especially in Japanese forms that strive to leave some things to the imagination and open for the reader to enter the moment. The first half of the poem—"dogs are buried / in the woods behind / our house"—leaves little room for argument. It's the line breaks that open the poem for interaction and interpretation. As each line adds new information about the location of the buried dogs and their proximity to the speaker, the end of each line brings the reader to a stopping place to ruminate over each piece of information and consider the possibilities. The poem moves from generic to specific in its telling of the buried dogs, while also moving from a smaller to larger space from the burial site to the woods and the house beyond. Meanwhile, the emotions move from uneasiness to slightly more personal and melancholy. It is not until the second half that it's clearer that the dogs likely belong to the speaker (and even then, it can't be confirmed); nevertheless, the closeness of the dead dogs to the house alone creates a connection between the dogs and speaker. The layout of the land in the first half creates a level of intrigue for the reader; the dash promises both a shift from and potential insight into why the first half matters.

The last two lines of the tanka also build on top of one another and open up room for reader participation. By itself "please let's talk no more" could be understood to mean "let's no longer discuss the dogs buried out back," or a simple plea for a moment of silence. The last line brings the mystery of the first half's importance to a close as it resonates and circles back to feelings of unease; meanwhile, it opens up to a series of new questions: Why would the speaker and his or her significant other/family consider moving? How many times has this conversation (that I imagine happening) occurred? How much of this poem is actually spoken aloud, and how much is silently understood by all parties? The tanka is generous in what it does tell the reader, but equally coy when it comes to these questions. The rich balance tugs at the heartstrings and makes the reader feel the strain the speaker must be experiencing in the thought of the dogs and the possibility of leaving, and on top of it all, the disagreement with whoever else is included in "our house."

The dash visually creates a clear separate between the two halves of the poem. This makes them feel like independent ideas, but they are so dependent upon one another for their significance. Why is the information about the dogs important? Because there is talk of leaving. Why does the speaker not want to leave? The dogs buried in the woods. The image and emotion beautifully shift and circle back, never quite resolving and always bringing the reader back. Eucalypt's pages always contain breathtaking tanka, but this is one that wouldn't leave me alone when I tried to sleep at night. If that is not the sign of a successful poem, I'm not sure what is.


© Aubrie Cox

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Barbara Curnow
an appraisal by Dorothy McLaughlin

saffron robes
shiny shaven head
a boy sits
reciting prayers
not yet, by heart

— Barbara Curnow 

The image is arresting, a young boy who has dedicated himself to the sacred. His old life is gone, his hair shorn, his secular clothes replaced by saffron robes. His youthful frame is adorned in garb that proclaims his vocation.

Barbara Curnow has painted him sitting and still. Then she draws her readers and herself closer to hear the boy pray. She shares what she realizes, that the child does not know these prayers by heart. Like members of all religious communities and of all religions, he must grow into his faith. The boy, I assume, has made a vow, a step that's not the end of life's pilgrimage but one of its milestones. "Not yet, by heart". I wasn't sure about the comma in line five. It made me slow down and pause. Yes, I thought, he must know many of the words already by rote. Time and grace and fellow monks will help him engrave the prayers in his heart, the core of his being. It hasn't happened yet, completely, but it will.

The tanka reminded me of Jesus as a youth in the Temple at Jerusalem, talking with the elders. Also, I thought of boys serving in children's armies, as well as young people at rites of bar and bat mitzvahs and confirmation, their courage as they commit themselves to the unknown.

Joyce S Greene, too wrote about the power of a child, a girl who brought joy and comfort to the person I assume was a grandmother, the first four lines brimming with joy, the last startling, leaving me to ask where is her mother, dead, in jail, a runaway. And Elizabeth Howard's tanka inspired this reader's pity for a boy, cold and supperless, desperately in need of the world's help, compelling those who witness his troubles to aid him and others in like circumstances.

Many readings allowed me to hear the softness of the tanka's language, the "s" sounds in saffron (a gentle word, a glowing color), robes, shiny, shaven, sits, reciting, prayers. By design or chance, there was no sibilation in the last line.

The power of words, the power of a child: Barbara Curnow has given us a memorable and beautiful jewel.


© Dorothy McLaughlin

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Michele L. Harvey
an appraisal by John Quinnett

a mountain peak
softens with age
the stoop
that was your father's
has become your own

— Michele L. Harvey 

An old man, living in the oldest mountains on earth, who looks in the mirror every morning and sees his father looking back, this tanka had me at hello. And yet, dutiful to my task, I read and reread Eucalypt 14 to make certain I hadn't missed a more precious offering. This got me into trouble. The more I read the more I found myself torn in this direction and that. So many deserving poems! Indecision, my old pal, knocked on the door. I let him in and he stayed two weeks. It seemed like the 60s again. I went into a lateral drift. A gentle nudge from Beverley and I woke up to the task once more. I decided to choose the tanka that first stole my heart: Harvey's "a mountain peak."

Resonance seems like an overworked word when used in reference to Japanese short form verse, yet for me personally, this is the poem's most outstanding quality. It's a poem that echoes like a train whistle through the coves and hollows of the Great Smoky Mountains, where I've been hiding out from the world all these years. The poem found me here, and spoke to me in a voice so simple and direct I nearly shuddered with the shock of recognition. My first impulse was to memorize the poem and go about reciting it to myself, my little dog, all my friends when I ran into them, even guys at the bar in town. I did that. That's how much this tanka resonated with me.

The tanka opens with a simple declarative sentence: "a mountain peak/softens with age." These first two lines present an image so arresting and true that I paused right there, at the end of the second line, and sank into reverie. I didn't want to go on. The poet may or may not live in a place like mine, but all I have to do is look up and I see mountain peaks softening with age all around me. In contemplating this image I thought about the geological age of the Smokies and the time it has taken to soften or wear them down. If the reader is looking for "dreaming room," the first part of this poem has it in abundance.

Finally, dropping down to the third and central line I was caught on a ledge and held there, stopped by those two simple words: "the stoop." More perfect hinges, or pivot lines have appeared in tanka before; I just can't think of one. This is the crucial line of the poem. Adding this line to the first half of the tanka and it works with haiku-like effect. But coupling this line with the concluding two lines and you're hit with a more startling image. The poem suddenly explodes with meaning. That stoop says it all: about growing older, about being your father's son, about learning to bend into the wind, about accepting with serenity those things you can't change, about passing time and eternity itself. I like the way this tanka loops you right back to the first part for another reading, and the way the two halves seem to fuse together. The marvel to me is how Harvey is able to accomplish all this in a sixteen word, twenty syllable poem. There is not one word or syllable too many in this tanka. And yet, it left me standing on a mountain peak in the Smokies with my father remembering sixty years ago when I stood with him as a boy on another mountain peak in the High Sierra mountains of California. The Smokies are old mountains; the Sierras young, jagged, and tall.

Thank you, Michele, for this wonderful poem. .


John Quinnett

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Kiyoko Ogawa
an appraisal by Barbara Curnow

all my life
I expect no grand bouquet
yet wish for
someone to greet me
with a single flower

— Kiyoko Ogawa 

I love the way this poem settles me into a feeling of deep peace and contentment, but also arouses my curiosity. The first two lines indicate that the protagonist has never been a person who expects showy demonstrations of appreciation, praise or love. And the words ?all my life? prove that her wish is no passing preference, but a desire so fundamental as to be life-long. But why would someone hold such a wish so strongly? I admire and delight in this tanka because it evokes in me several answers to that question.

A bouquet, especially a grand one, can certainly be stunning. However, its mixture of shapes, colours, sizes and fragrances lacks the quiet beauty, simplicity and understatement of a single flower. Our senses may be overwhelmed by a big bouquet, but are likely to be soothed and pacified by apprehending just one bloom. So Kiyoko?s tanka speaks to me of a yearning for the beauty of simplicity; a sentiment that I?m sure most tanka lovers appreciate.

To be greeted with a single flower, also, in my mind, represents being greeted in a more intimate or personal way. It conveys a longing to be deeply known, understood and accepted by another. The poem does not express a wish to be greeted by a particular person, just ?someone?; the longing to connect deeply with at least one person in this world.

The reference to a single flower also reminds me of the famous story about the Buddha, in which a seeker approached him, offered a flower, bowed, and asked for his teachings. The Buddha sat quietly, then slowly, in a wordless message to the assembled crowd, held up the flower. This gesture referred to the unity of all things; a truth that is beyond words and can only be known through one?s inner experience.

I also admire the structure of this tanka, because it helped me to experience its essence. I love the way the third line stands strongly. It not only emphasises the wish, but ensures that by the end of the poem, the hustle and bustle of bouquets is far behind, and I am left holding a single flower.

So for me, this exquisite tanka by Kiyoko Ogawa speaks of a longing for simplicity and deep connection with others. Such a universal theme, so beautifully rendered, will surely find resonance in the hearts of many readers.


Barbara Curnow

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Neal Whitman
an appraisal by Michele L Harvey

waiting on the dock
a woman holds a placard
with my name on it
I am put in her arms,
my mother, singing to me
            — Neal Whitman

My shortlist gleanings from Eucalypt 15 were eighteen poems which had been already severely pruned. (My gratitude and admiration to all for such a treasure trove to choose from.) This kind of exercise makes one take stock and reaffirms the love of the tanka form. What is it that makes me fall in love again and again? What is it that makes opening Eucalypt like a sumptuous box of chocolates, not knowing what surprises and flavors will meet the tongue? Like a box of chocolates one returns to one’s favorite flavors, but why no matter how often tasted do they remain so? A little investigation reveals the source; a story line exquisitely unfolded as if by a master chocolatier, which tickles the tongue ( or mind) with each progressive line, slowly unveiling nuances never before dreamed of. This may be done with closely cropped verse or in a languid, lyrical song.

Neal Whitman’s poem was such a one, with each line building on the preceding until the crescendo. The picture and its gravity may be guessed at line four, but line five adds the humanity and pathos of a loving mother relinquishing the blood of her blood. There could be no more heart rending moment between two souls, which are also changed forever by it. It is drawn in the simplest of prose but depicts an anguish and tenderness beyond words by the mother singing to her child even while giving him up, in hope for a better life for him. Neal Whitman has presented this picture matter-of-factly without sentiment, but that is precisely what brings out the full-bodied flavor and immensity of the scene, evincing the hand of a master.

Other very fine poems which followed closely and were built masterfully, line upon line were:

flight crew demonstrates
inflatable life jackets
I gasp at the thought
of your coffin
in the cargo hold
            — Lois J Funk

my brother
talks of cremation
casually —
the door half open
one hand on the latch
            — Michael Thorley

I don’t possess
the accomplishments
of a lady…
sewing, decorating
playing second fiddle
            — Keitha Keyes

my river
flows to the sea
soon I will
be finished
with yesterdays
            — Mel Goldberg

Please note, this is not a prerequisite for fine tanka but one of which sets up a cinematic view and spectacular Aha moment. Together they weave an unforgettable whole and a poem which is seared in memory.


Michele L Harvey

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Lois J Funk
an appraisal by Kiyoko Ogawa

flight crew demonstrates
inflatable life jackets
I gasp at the thought
of your coffin
in the cargo hold
            — Lois J Funk

Some of our poets tend to be critical of tanka expressing sentiment that is too subjective. In my opinion, however, this is exactly one of the strengths that tanka possess. Because of the limitation of length and fixed rules, tankaists think hard how to discard any redundant word, thus enabling a work to connect directly with the essential core of our own hearts.

I have appreciated many good tanka in this issue, especially the ones addressing old age, impending death or ominous news. But as I have to choose only one tanka for the Award, I have decided to take the one which sends out the most poignant personal emotion and which imprints an unforgetable impression on the readers' minds.

Ms. Funk's tanka strikes a strong chord with me. Curiously enough, I recently heard a similar tragic story from one of my Australian friends that her relative from Europe suddenly passed away in Brisbane after greatly enjoying his dream trip to the Antipodes. His wife flew home with her husband's coffin in the hold.

In this tanka the expressed contrast between life and death is conspicuous, which invites each reader's empathy perhaps beyond the author's intention. Only those still living deserve being protected by 'life jackets,' while the dead is put in the hold, being uninflatable.

The structure of this tanka is admirably precise; the first two lines of the upper section are replete with sounds, light and even hope; the closing two lines are of the literal underworld; chilly, silent and dark. In between is poised the narrator, who physically belongs to the former, but spiritually to the latter.

Since the ancient times the Japanese have written countless elegies in the genre of waka. I believe an elegy is one form of love poem. Ms. Funk's tanka possesses the decisive universality of human grief.

Lastly as a return poem (henka . .) I quote here an elegy by Yosano Akiko written after losing her husband.

.........................

You departed this life
without knowing
such grief
such tears
such chill of mine.

.........................

[Note: Kiyoko Ogawa followed this elegy with two kanji [unable to be replicated here] meaning ‘Gassho’ (joining my palms), ‘a pose or signal for praying for the deceased. It's a Buddhist gesture when worshipping at temples or funerals.’ ]


Kiyoko Ogawa

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Julie Thorndyke
An appraisal by Neal Whitman

when it all seems
simply too much to bear -
the cool blue ocean
edged with lapis-lazuli,
velvet fingers of white foam
            — Julie Thorndyke

When I read a poem, I know in advance two words that will not appear at the bottom of the page: The End. An ending is what I expect from prose. At the end of a poem, I expect an invitation for me to finish it. My friend, Donald Hall, puts it this way in his poem, "The Master,"

Where the poem stops, the poem
begins…

One way I judge the worth of a poem is the sincerity of that invitation, and based on the authenticity of Julie Thorndyke's invitation, I have selected her tanka. Some readers might "see" in this tanka the beauty of this world that can be too much to bear and other readers might "see" its beauty as a balm for what would otherwise be unbearable. And, you know what? Since no two people read the same poem, no reader is wrong. This invitation for us to finish her tanka made it my personal choice.

A brief word about tanka. Some poets are wedded to this form of poetry. Along with other poets, I am not betrothed, but it is my favorite form of poetry. Its attraction, I believe, is in its purity. Tanka is pure lyricism. It is a song, albeit without a melody, but with rhythm and sound, that speaks from one heart to another.

By what alchemy did Julie Thorndyke achieve this bit of magic? Since a song is meant to be sung, I spoke her words aloud (as I did other tanka that invited closer inspection). In one breath, it felt natural for me to take an almost imperceptible pause after the first line and the s sound of "seems" lead right the s sound of "simply" and then I felt the gravity of each word that followed in line 2: "too much to bear." Then I stopped for a true pause. When I first read this poem silently on the page, it was daytime. Some people prefer to read lyrical poetry at night when they feel free from the work of the day. My second reading was late in the evening, in bed, just before sleep. I pulled the sheet and blanket to my chin. When day is done is a time when "if only" thoughts come to my mind. And, in that moment, it all seems simply too much to bear! Do you sometimes feel that way too?

Ah, but Life is bearable … in fact, full of promise, not just remorse and regret. Here is where Thorndyke's pivot saves my day (and night). Another friend, the late Professor John Hicks, told me that good poems make good teachers. This tanka is a good teacher. Look at - listen to - the sound of "cool blue" in line 3 combined with the sound of "lapis-lazili" in line 4. I now feel my face, burned by too long a day by the ocean, soothed at night with after-sun lotion. Oh, now add line 5: "velvet fingers of white foam." This juxtaposition and its resonance is a magnificent teacher of how to write tanka.

We are at the end of Julie's tanka, but as I previewed earlier, it is not The End. I, the reader, am not at its end. I am not done with it. Plus, now I will pay extra attention to her next tanka, though, in a way, this one was her last - her last in the sense that it makes possible her next tanka. Ah, then let's say this one was her second-to-last. I am optimistic that her next tanka might be an even better poem - she has not written her best tanka … yet.

Three more tanka … in alphabetical order by author, that I also found to be master teachers:

amid news
of countries in turmoil
on the BBC
someone has recovered
two new poems by Sappho
Mary Franklin

old convict town
darkness veils the trampled paths
that's when
the old bridge exhales
its night roaming ghosts
Lorraine Haig

the steroids
plump his body out
to a Buddha's -
with luck, enlightenment
will be its side-effect
Michael Thorley

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Michele L Harvey
An Appraisal by Lois J. Funk

 

the steamy part
of chapter three…
the bedroom spider
descends
to have a closer look

            — Michele L. Harvey

While I was particularly impressed with several of the poems in this issue, this one caught my attention and teased my imagination to the point that the more I read it, the more I read into it.

Two key words - 'steamy' and 'bedroom' - set the scene for this poem. At first glance, "the steamy part of chapter three…" conjures up a picture of the main character reading a steamy romance novel. Subsequent readings, however, give me the feel of steamy windows, mirrors, air, and breath. Then comes a spark of humor introduced by the appearance of the spider - not just any spider, but the bedroom spider, implying that this is not the first time this particular spider has dropped in to have a look at whatever is going on in the bedroom. Further, the spider doesn't just drop, fall, or crawl; rather, it 'descends to have a closer look', suggesting a slow, deliberate, and quiet intrusion as it looks over the shoulder of the one who is engrossed in reading, or participating in, "the steamy part of chapter three." I especially like the fact that the spider's presence is not worrisome as the poet muses over the fact that it merely wants to "have a closer look."

Simplicity of wording (though certainly not of writing) is what makes this tanka my favorite. While Ms. Harvey does not use elaborate descriptions, vivid imagery conveys her story. She wisely does not combine the key words, to say 'steamy bedroom', but lets the spider introduce the unfolding scene. With two lines dedicated to the main character, and three dedicated to the spider, this tanka has a wonderful balance of nature and the human element.

Others in close contention:

hanging upside down
from the old apple tree
his seven-year-old
continues her study
of the short-tailed bat

            — André Surridge

midsummer heat -
children with shaved heads
folding origami cranes
for the classmate
in the hospice house

            — Elizabeth Howard

they pass
at the airport
father son
both looking
for someone younger

            — Margaret Beverland

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Sylvia Florin
An Appraisal by Julie Thorndyke

 

may your love
find the softer rock in me . . .
carve a wide
and glittering river bed
empty of regret
            — Sylvia Florin

Aware that it is my fortunate lot to write a distinctive scribblings piece, I wait, journal unopened, throughout the hub-bub of end-of-year business and Christmas rush, until the calm that falls after New Year's Eve. Well-fortified by warm, humid temperatures and short dips in a crystal ocean, I open the envelope and begin my first reading.

How not to be seduced by Carmel Summers' lamplight poem on page 3? Even if not foregrounded in first position and highlighted by a large line drawing, the emotive image would have grabbed my attention. The lamps in the drawing are not those in my mind's eye. I see lantern-shaped classic European lights-for me, a symbol of noir, romantic streetscapes; the mystery and subtle allure of foreign cities; the promise of new experiences; the echoes of exotic cultural pasts, seemingly less mundane than our own neon-lit world. The simultaneous awareness of the traveller's faraway home with a different tonal quality of light…the wabi-sabi feel of longing and regret mixed with hopes of homecoming…so much to enjoy in this poem.

Reluctant to give my heart away quite so soon, I keep reading, noticing my responses to poems as I read the journal in one, concentrated sitting. Then I pause, reflect. Has the editor's impressive ordering of the poems influenced my responses? To be sure, I wait. Sleep. Swim. Eat. Reread the journal with a clear head, beginning on the last page, working back to the lamps.

I give each poem equal attention. Without exceptions, the same words leap into my affections. Words that connect with my own life experience, and match my personal requirements for a memorable tanka:

· original, arresting, personally-experienced images

· a poetic touch in words and sounds

· a strong conclusion

· direct appeal to the senses

· honest emotional impact

Anne Benjamin's "shoulders / tattooed with angel wings / the arms she never had" finishes with such a powerful last line that forces me back to the beginning of the poem to wonder how the housework was achieved. Are physical arms completely missing, or are the angel wings extra arms to achieve the impossible in a human day? Original, authentic, thought-provoking writing.

Fabric textures appeal to my haptic sense in poems on pages 4, 6, and 10. The "frayed threads of friendship" by Jan Foster, Dawn Bruce's "invisible mend", Maria Steyn's "touch of spring" knitted into a scarf. Carole MacRury's "bittersweet chocolates" beguile, and the wonderful image of winter stars as "seed pearls / hand stitched / to black velvet" by Marilyn Humbert on page12 lingers with me. Jan Dean's "fragments of concrete / exposed by turbulent seas" on page10 represent real and important local history.

But on page 30, the impact of the words "soft rock" in Sylvia Florin's comparison of river erosion to romantic love, her expert rendering of the poetic metaphor, the inherent longing for love, her elegant cadence, all win me over. A subtle poetic magic in the sound repetitions in the phrases "soft rock", "glittery river", "empty of regret" is not imposed on the poem but forms part of the weave. The tactile image of crumbling rock represents the resistance, defensive attitudes and struggle that all form part of a relationship, illuminated further by the image of erosion of geological stratum by the gentle, persistent, powerful force of water.

Sylvia Florin's poem exudes an intimate, convincing tone. A wish for unfettered passion and the willingness to be shaped by desire is mirrored by the mental picture of a wide, glittering river that carves through a hidden valley. Addressing "you" directly enhances the intimacy of the poem and gives it the flavour of a holy blessing with the words "may your love" - it is prayer, wish and benediction all in five short lines. We have the sense that the course of love is beyond the control of the lovers…that the openness required of each other is only the first step in the long progress to the glittering fulfilment of love. The last line is strong, although only five syllables. It provides a slight bend in the story. There will be no regrets: this is the trust placed in the lover, to love carefully and truly, to bore away through the "soft rock" generously offered. The alternative, a heart of granite, is not to be contemplated.

 

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Sylvia Florin
An Appraisal by Michele L Harvey

may your love
find the softer rock in me . . .
carve a wide
and glittering river bed
empty of regret
            — Sylvia Florin

While life may be long for many of us, often it’s not long enough to gain true softness.

That kind of yielding takes time and experience to develop and if life has been too hard or too busy it may not come to fruition. Love itself, may also come too soon or too late along life’s timeline and lucky are the few who experience the full value of this ‘softening.’ There is an element of the unconditional to it, including self-love and boundless understanding, rarely to be found in the everyday world. It is the grand, mythical love, described by poets and musicians.

Here, the poet Sylvia Florin, speaks to the hope that that capability lies dormant within her, soon to be awakened by the beloved. It is a keenly felt, fresh angle on a theme as old as mankind itself. Upon reading this beautiful poem, the full yearning and recognition of my own dormant hopes were awakened. And isn’t that the very definition of poetry itself?

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Patricia Prime
An Appraisal by Sylvia Florin

I think of you
at home in Kerikeri
keeping love afloat:
man, kitten, goldfish and dog
all within arm's reach
            — Patricia Prime

I kept returning to this tanka both because it particularly moved me, and because it seemed, through some magical means, to be many layered. Somehow, the author has managed to conjure for this reader our whole world as a sort of benign goldfish bowl in which all parts are potentially linked by love - if only we can reach out. Wonderful! I imagine that the author is away somewhere and can bring to mind her home companions (by thought /internet /phone) and feel her temporary separation softened. Tenderness and trust pervade the poem without being explicitly stated.

How does she do this? The poem is a delightful mix of the everyday, and poetic metaphor. I think it may be the third line that sets up the magic, though it needs its fellows to bring it to consciousness. 'keeping love afloat' is such an unusual and interesting choice of words to describe the situation of someone tending the home while the other is away. But it opened my mind to the possibilities of water, seas and oceans. Also, I have never been to Kerikeri but it looks like it might be quite a watery place, so already in line two there may be intimations of water. Then the presence of a goldfish amidst the list of ordinary household inhabitants listed in line four - 'man, kitten, goldfish and dog' - presented me with a goldfish bowl... and somehow the sweep of the last line transformed the goldfish bowl into a planet with its vaster stretches of water. 'all within arms reach' is a simple and everyday expression but in the context of this poem it carries a deep intimacy and a long reach, and it swept me from goldfish bowl to planet and back again. I loved this journey, even though I realize these goldfish may not in fact reside in a bowl!

Though made of disparate images, the tanka readily coheres into a whole - like the planet it has conjured up for me. The 'k' sounds found in the first four lines help with this, as does the assonance between home and afloat; and the last line does the rest of the work, gathering everything together. There is implicit tenderness in thinking of the person at home, in the keeping of a kitten and other animals, in the secure knowing that love is being kept afloat.

What a difficult but pleasurable task it has been, to select a special tanka from so many fine and moving poems. I know that my choice reflects my own tastes, interests and concerns and that there are many fine tanka both on and not on my shortlist. But what to do - other than to take the opportunity to mention a few other tanka - in no particular order - that proved hard to go past. I loved Linda Jeannette Ward's 'opening and closing / her bamboo fan...' for its vivid image, imagination and harmony. Ali Znaidi's poem about the little moth 'drifting / into spring fog' was very hard to leave aside with its beautiful sounds, deep meaning, and perfect match of size of poem to image. And lastly I really enjoyed J. Zimmerman's poem 'my shadow merges / with the shadow of a cloud' for its unusual imagery and its succinctness and clarity in addressing a complex subject.

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Anne Curran
An Appraisal by Sylvia Florin

pushing a wheelchair
I see the cropping
of corn before winter. . .
the plane's tail-lights
disappear into grey
            — Anne Curran

I chose this tanka for its unusual power and imagery. It so powerfully evokes the sense of, and perhaps fear of, a diminishing future and is unusual in using three images to convey this, each one contributing to the emotional effect. The subject matter is one that most of us can relate to though the only reference to a particular human predicament is a slight one: 'pushing a wheelchair / I see'... The two images which follow convey strongly, yet without direct narrative, what may be to come in the lives of those two people, whose relationship is left unspecified.

'...the cropping / of corn before winter' draws our attention to the end of the growing season - the bounty of summer and autumn will be harvested; the corn plants have had their day. Although on reflection it seems the natural order of things to harvest corn in autumn, there is a sense for this reader of the possibility of a premature death or a premature increase in disability on the horizon. This may reflect my own unreadiness to face such a future, rather than the narrator's, but it is a mark of the poem's success that both responses are possible. The strength of the word 'cropping' at the end of the second line works well; though an ordinary word, here it somehow carries an ominous overtone. The shift to the next image feels quite abrupt - from cornfields to seeing a plane - but of course one can see both these things at once while out pushing a wheelchair, and I found it an easy and evocative scene to visualize. In this last image the speaker is looking to an even wider vista, the sky. The plane is flying into the future and that future is looking grey.

Choice of sounds adds to the coherence of this poem. I'm thinking of the pleasurable alliteration in the cropping of corn; the assonance of corn and before, and of plane, tail and grey....all these help bind the images together and add to the musicality of the poem. The short lines underscore the sense of a diminishing future. I admire this poem for the way it creates a strong emotional effect with very little straight narrative but by using two disparate images. It works because both images are fresh, unusual, and perfect for the task.

What a difficult but pleasurable task it has been, to select a special tanka from so many fine and moving poems. I know that my choice reflects my own tastes, interests and concerns and that there are many fine tanka both on and not on my shortlist. But what to do - other than to take the opportunity to mention a few other tanka - in no particular order - that proved hard to go past. I loved Linda Jeannette Ward's 'opening and closing / her bamboo fan...' for its vivid image, imagination and harmony. Ali Znaidi's poem about the little moth 'drifting / into spring fog' was very hard to leave aside with its beautiful sounds, deep meaning, and perfect match of size of poem to image. And lastly I really enjoyed J. Zimmerman's poem 'my shadow merges / with the shadow of a cloud' for its unusual imagery and its succinctness and clarity in addressing a complex subject.

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Sonam Chhoki
An Appraisal by Patricia Prime

ancestral valley –
the way prayer flags
flicker light at dawn
I carry this in my heart
each time I leave home

            — Sonam Chhoki

I was immediately drawn to Sonam Chhoki's tanka as it reminded me of a trip I made many years ago to Nepal. The country I had only dreamed about, was spread out before me. Here, there were mountains in the distance under a blue sky, monasteries, palaces, whitewashed cottages where dung was spread on the walls to dry. Yaks, donkeys and farmers with hand carts who collected sticks of the juniper trees. The prayer flags that were strung between trees summoned to my mind by Sonam's evocative lines: 'the way prayer flags / flicker light at dawn'.

The simple lines of the tanka unfold a narrative of history (in the words 'ancestral valley'), love of home, remembrance of things past, loss and departure: themes which are ambiguous enough to allow the reader to enter and to get lost within the poem. The tanka moves from the valley of childhood to an intriguing elsewhere. This elsewhere brilliantly captured in the poignancy of the last two lines: 'I carry this in my heart / each time I leave home'). It is this engagement with the departure from home and the poet's memories that is deftly and delicately handled. In this beautiful melancholy tanka she reveals only what she wants the readers to see.

The tanka takes the breath away, and I feel both moved and stilled by it. Here is a sacred place, a sketch, a fragment, a brief moment in the poet's imagination that captures an infinite sense of what home means to each of us.

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Jenny Ward Angyal
An Appraisal by Anne Curran

horseshoe –
the blacksmith's hammer
singing on the anvil
beating out the rhythm
of long-lost luck

            — Jenny Ward Angyal

I have chosen the tanka written by Jenny Ward Angyal for the Scribbles award.
When I first read this poem it sang to me. I could hear the singing of a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil, visualize the whir of repetitive movement; imagine the concentration of his industry.
This theme of long-lost luck is one that appeals to me, how a man or woman may learn to cope in the face of adversity; the loss of golden times they once knew. For me, despite these words of 'long-lost luck', the poem doesn't sing of hopelessness, but rather of hope or continued optimism as the blacksmith sets about his work mending the horseshoe. For in his work, he has found a purpose, and as long as he is mending or fitting a horseshoe, his or someone else's luck may turn for the better. Opportunities may be renewed and replenished.
I feel this poem reminds us that life offers us many opportunities, some of which we appreciate and reap dividends from, some of which we take for granted and whittle away, and some of which we need to work very hard for.

The singing of the blacksmith's anvil is somehow instrumental to the winds of change, to getting a result that we want. It is working a magic of kinds. The word 'singing' suggests that there is some joy in his work, the words 'beating out' suggest that there is also hard graft involved. Both phrases create movement and sound in the poem. The poem is tightly structured and written with no words wasted. This tight structure somehow conveys an image of a tidy man at work. The word 'horseshoe' opening the tanka in the first line presents the reader with a very concrete image of luck.

Further tanka that I particularly enjoyed on first reading were Barbara A Taylor's poem about life and death in rural land with its graphic image of a dead wallaby, and the tanka written by Dawn Bruce with its images of possibilities in pastoral beauty.

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Janet Lynn Davis
An Appraisal by Jenny Ward Angyal

on my knees
in a forest of weeds . . .
through the night
the chatter of small things
I rip from my life


            — Janet Lynn Davis

I chose this poem because its deceptively simple language is so richly layered with meaning. The first two lines can be read as a literal description of the poem's narrator out in her garden pulling weeds. But 'on my knees' is a posture of prayer, of supplication, of reverence. And the 'forest of weeds' feels overwhelming-one can get lost in a forest, after all, though not in a weedy flowerbed. So we can read the 'forest of weeds' as a metaphor for a life overrun by the problems that spring up everywhere, and the narrator's posture as a gesture of entreaty.

The ellipsis at the end of line 2 indicates a shift in time and place-we're no longer in the sunlit garden but enduring an uneasy night. And yet, if one reads through the ellipsis, the opening lines become a dreamscape. In either reading, the narrator is troubled by 'the chatter of small things' disturbing her sleep. What small things are these? Literal weeds rarely 'chatter,' so we are led once more into metaphor--these 'small things' are not crabgrass and dandelions but equally invasive mental/emotional/spiritual 'weeds'-nagging worries, niggling resentments, gnawing doubts. Any reader can generate his or her own list!

But the narrator resolutely rips these 'small things' from her life-flinging them, one imagines, onto the compost heap of the mind where they will turn into rich soil to nourish a more promising crop. And yet . . . and yet . . . as we read and reread the poem we find the small things still chattering 'through the night,' protesting their uprooting from the poet's mind and heart. To pretend that the voices of the 'small things' can be stilled with ease and finality would be too pat-weeds do grow back! So the poem offers us resolve and hope but no easy answers. Side-by-side with the narrator we must sink to our knees again and again.

The tanka reflects the poet's sensitivity to the sounds as well as the sense of her carefully chosen words: the pleasing chime of 'kneel' and 'weeds;' the sharp contrast between the casual, bubbly sound of 'chatter' and the abrupt harshness of 'rip.' Altogether a finely crafted tanka, this small song uses just 21 ordinary words and a few familiar images, yet gives the reader so much to ponder.

Choosing just one poem from Eucalypt 20 was no easy task, as the issue includes many fine tanka and many that speak to me. Among my other favorites are Debbie Strange's 'three perfections' with its lyrical language melding art and nature; Autumn Noelle Hall's 'life's belay' with its striking metaphor for the precariousness of our lives; and Michelle Brock's 'her journal' with its beautiful characterization of a voice searching for expression. I could mention many more, but this would still be just a shortlist reflecting my personal preferences; the range of styles and voices in Eucalypt 20 includes tanka to move and delight every reader.

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Kathy Kituai
An Appraisal by Sonam Chhoki

 

Amateur astronomers contribute to Astrophysics by monitoring brightness of stars and supernovae, tracking asteroids and even making some discoveries. In May 2005, there was 'breaking news' that amateur and professional astronomers had teamed up to discover a new planet, thrice the size of Jupiter, circling a distant star. And so it is for me, a relative amateur in tanka seeking in the galaxy of this renowned journal for stellar poems. The amateur astronomer is equipped with 'microlensing' technology. All I have is an imperfect eye and some hope that I have done justice to the poem selected.

the silence
after magpies sing . . .
enough to know
you cradled the phone
the way I did after we hung up

            — Kathy Kituai

What struck me about Kathy Kituai's poem is the way the 'silence' is the medium, by which the whole emotional and psychological significance of the imageries comes to light. First of all, as a contrast to the magpies' song it creates a space and moment for the poet's reflection. This lull after the magpies' song and the poet's own conversation on the telephone is charged with poignancy. The detail, 'cradled' evokes the act of nurturing, protecting and caring for someone. There is tenderness and intimacy in way the poet pictures the other person mirroring her own action. :

"you cradled the phone
the way I did after we hung up"

 

The ache in this poem strikes a strong chord with anyone who has been separated from a child or a loved one.

I am also grateful to Kathy Kituai for sending me on a search of discovery about the magpie. In many parts of the world this bird has a reputation for being a pest, pilfering 'shiny objects' such as pieces of jewellery and during its breeding season 'swooping' and attacking unsuspecting cyclists and walkers. However, an Internet search reveals that the magpie is also known as the 'flute bird' for its range of accomplished songs and that it is celebrated in aboriginal folklore as a 'sunrise' bird.

My special thanks to Beverley for providing this wonderful opportunity to poets from around the world to share and enjoy a wide repertoire of themes and motifs.

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Michelle Brock
An Appraisal by Janet Lynn Davis

Though it was difficult for me to choose just one tanka for this Distinctive Scribblings Award, eventually I settled on unpacking her bag by Michelle Brock. I'm impressed by how this tanka unfolds, step by step (unpacking, tucking away), detail by detail (her bag, her nightdress, etc.) until we are "socked in the gut" at the end. I'm also impressed with the poet's tidy, seemingly effortless, and matter-of-fact style, not a word too many or few. The "s" alliteration in line four as well as the "p" consonance and other sounds throughout create musicality. It's an easy poem to read because of its smooth flow and all-too-familiar subject matter . . . or is it?

        unpacking her bag
        he tucks her nightdress
        under the pillow —
        after sixty years side by side
        where to put his grief?

The poem ends in a question, but smaller questions also arise along the way in rapid fire: Why is "he" emptying "her" bag? Why can't she? Where is she, what might have happened to her (is he just trying to be helpful, or might she be in the hospital and unable to unpack)? And why is he placing her gown under a ("the") pillow? Is it her pillow or his? (Ultimately, either one, I think, might be appropriate, though I assume it is hers.) Then in line four of this two-part tanka, we receive some key information about the couple, while possibly naively holding out hope that the ending might contain news that is somehow good.

Finally, there's line five, the perhaps-shocking conclusion to this brief story. A straightforward question, okay, simple enough? But where indeed to put his grief, after more than sixty years of companionship? Where indeed to put our grief? (And of course, grief need not only be associated with literal physical death.) The format works particularly well here, because we simply cannot answer such a question or, at least, not easily. I found myself reading unpacking over and over, as if in search of a home for the heartbreak I've experienced. In the end we may do well to place our own grief, or as much of it as we can, just as the subject of this poem has done, in an item of clothing tucked under a metaphorical pillow— there or, perhaps, within the lines of a humble-but-powerful tanka.

I'm happy to be able to discuss Michelle's beautiful tanka. Additionally, I'd like to recognize a few other poets for their tanka that worked their way onto my list of favorites: Amelia Fielden for a dawn deer with its profound multilayeredness and deer-like grace; Debbie Strange for her unique, thought-provoking fallen leaves; John Quinnett for the quiet spiritual slant in his helping me; Dawn Bruce for the joyous, literally "color-full" imagery in her spring shower; Michele L. Harvey for folding sheets, a poem of gratitude; and finally Susan Constable for the relatable truth she conveys so well in a seascape. Also, I thank Beverley for creating Eucalypt and for her ten and one-half years at the helm of such a fine journal. Last but not least, I wish the best to Julie Thorndyke as she assumes her role as the new editor of Eucalypt.

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Max Ryan
An Appraisal by Kathy Kituai

 

each day
we gather by your bedside
outside, a flight of ibis
passes over, one falling back
on slow-beating wings    

— Max Ryan

The endearing tone in this tanka directly addresses a loved one in bed. Are they ill or dying? Whatever the reason, they are reassured they will not be alone. It is clear that those who 'gather' will do so for as many days as it takes to see them through.

each day
we gather by your bedside

What impresses is not only the simplicity of this statement that says so much, but this phrase that follows in the 4th line:

a flight of ibis/passes over . . .

Although we are unsure at first what ails the loved one, we now know they are more than likely to die. 'Passing over' is a term used for death. Ibis are also a symbol for the same thing. Read James Hurst's famous short story, Scarlet Ibis, and the connection will haunt you for life. If this isn't enough, Max Ryan embeds two meanings with this phrase, one that makes a simple observation of nature, the other inferring something far more foreboding. He achieves a similar effect in the last two lines:

. . . one falling back
on slow-beating wings

We cannot keep up when we are ill, our hearts beat slower and life slackens to its own speed. Such moments are a time of meditation, of taking stock as much as it is a need to comfort the person confined to bed: 'on slow beating wings', symbolically they are the ibis unable to keep up with the rest of the flock and those who gather, do so by forgoing their busy nine-to-five living.

There is so much dreaming room in this tanka, many life stories are bound to occur to readers; after all death and caring for our own loved ones is part of life. Every minute of the day, someone, somewhere on earth is either serious ill or dying. According to Birth & Death Rates 1, 6,316 people worldwide, die every hour.

This tanka triggers memories of two incidents in my life. The first is of a flock of magpies diving through peak hour traffic to where their young lay injured on a walkway, how they risked death to be with it, and tried in vain to gather it up by its wingtips. Another is the way my family assembled around my twin brother's bedside when he returned (four years of age) from hospital.

It's not just the content in this multi-layered tanka that makes it a stand out poem. Each word is carefully chosen and earns its keep with assonance in 'bedside, outside, by, flight, ibis' and alliteration in "by, bedside, beating'.

Given the high quality of tanka in every issue of Eucalypt, it's hard to narrow one's choice to a single tanka. So many are worthy of a Distinctive Scribbling award. However I chose this one not only because of its comparison of the natural world to inner-scape, but also because of the way in which it lingers after the page is closed. We are left more aware of that bird or that loved one in our own life unable to keep up. Max Ryan offers a moment to contemplate this compassionately.

1 Birth & Death Rates (www.ecuology-com/birth-death-rates)

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Susan Constable
An Appraisal by Michelle Brock

 

       another change
       in the way I see myself . . .
       today’s reflection
       blurred in the ripples
       of a cloud-filled puddle

       —Susan Constable

Of the many tanka I've kept returning to in the latest issue of Eucalypt, it is Susan Constable's another change that I have chosen for the Scribblers Award. Immediately, I am attracted to the sound of this tanka when read aloud - its rhythm and musicality - the way it shifts gently from the soft 's' to lilting 'l' sounds. On first reading it appears to be a tanka about changing moods and the way the poet sees herself on this particular day. Digging deeper I discover Susan's tanka is steeped in layers of meaning. Its dreaming room takes me on a personal journey around the search for clarity and certainty in a world of change.

The opening line another change invites us to delve in and explore. Life is constantly changing and the older we get the faster the years flit by. The second line in the way I see myself urges a more subjective examination of change. Looking down at my own hands as I write, my skin reminds me of someone much older. How did that happen? Yet some days in my head I am five, twenty-one and sixty-three all at once. At the end of the second line the poet invites a pause before considering what lies ahead.

The third line anchors us in time. It is today's reflection that the poet is focussing on. Yet there are many different facets to the idea of reflection. Along with physical appearance, reflection could also refer to the inner landscape of body, mind and/or spirit. It might even conjure up how we are reflected in the eyes of others, or how others are reflected in our eyes. These days I often catch my mother's reflection looking back at me from the mirror. Could reflection also be a precursor of what lies ahead?

The fourth line blurred in the ripples evokes a feeling of ambiguity and a sense of movement, a change, a rippling below the surface. What's causing the ripples? A gentle breeze or the beginnings of some tectonic shift? The final line a cloud-filled puddle provides resolution on one level but also opens a Pandora's Box of new questions. The reference to clouds reinforces feelings of uncertainty and introduces a sense of mystery, of things not yet revealed, perhaps even a perception of foreboding. On cloudy days, light is muted and reflections are less clear. And why a puddle, rather than something more expansive like a lake? A puddle is something smaller and more transient, a symbol of impermanence perhaps? Is the poet simply telling me today's mood will pass?

I have enjoyed the journey Susan's tanka has taken me on. With each reading there is something new to ponder. Change is inevitable and adapting to change is sometimes difficult. The tanka reassures me that it is normal some days to look in the mirror and question who I am and where I'm heading. Growing older is inevitable. This tanka reminds me that life is finite and nothing is absolute from one day to the next.

Like those before me I have been faced with a very difficult decision. With so many beautiful and diverse voices in Issue 22 of Eucalypt, there are many tanka I might have chosen. I am grateful to all the poets for sharing their tanka and allowing me to explore the dreaming room within each one. I worked my way through quite a long 'short list' and had the pleasure of examining a different tanka in detail each morning. It has been an extremely enjoyable and rewarding experience.

Thank you Julie Thorndyke for maintaining the high quality and fine standards set by Beverley George. It's wonderful to know that Eucalypt is in safe and capable hands.

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Kathy Kituai
An Appraisal by Max Ryan

 

tilted toward
late afternoon light
how red
the rusted kettle . . .
sonorous the water    

— Kathy Kituai

I took some time to decide on this tanka and it was only when I'd made my selection that I recalled Kathy Kituai had chosen my tanka for the last Eucalypt. After further careful scrutiny, I ended up with the same choice.

The alliteration of the first line with its artful enjambment, drops us into a small but vivid scene. The sun is tilted towards evening, adding a sense of moment to this everyday ritual of boiling the kettle. In its quiet way, it reminds me of the Zen story of the man falling off a cliff and seizing hold of a bush on which one lone berry grows. As the branch he is holding gives way, the man eats the berry - the sweetest fruit in the universe!

Here though, there is plenty of time to savour this fleeting occasion. Line 3, "how red", challenges us to observe the simple detail of the intensity of the kettle's hue. The alliteration of "red" and "rusted" gives further emphasis to the image of the kettle - the visual focus of the poem. Suggested here as well is the effect of the deepening red of a falling sun. I like the sense too that it could be the kettle, as well as the sunlight, that is tilted - perhaps in the act of pouring hot water into a teapot.

The overall setting of Kathy Kituai's poem is one of serenity and quiet reflection: "tilted" and "rusted", as past participles, convey the feeling of slow time and composure, a small tableaux arrested in time. There is a strong sense of presence and deep listening in this tanka. The lovely cadence of "sonorous" in the last line adds an aural dimension to a scene of almost uncanny repose. The reader is right there, at one with the old kettle and the burble of boiling water.

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Carol Raisfeld
An Appraisal by Susan Constable

 

 

       suddenly
       in the space of a breath
       I'm lost …
       in this strange world
       I'm not me without you

             — Carol Raisfeld

This is the first tanka in Eucalypt 23 that aroused an immediate and poignant response in me. And it continues to do so every time I read it.

Although tanka are said to be image based, Raisfeld's poem flies in the face of convention and relies mainly on emotion to engage the reader. By line 3, I'm also lost, feeling alone (even abandoned) and unable to see or hear things clearly. I'm on my own in so many ways and it's terrifying, for I have no idea who I am or who I might become.

In fact, after reading the entire issue of Eucalypt many times over a period of several weeks, I kept returning to this particular verse-trying to determine how Carol managed to write such a heartfelt tanka with no images to stimulate my imagination. Perhaps, I decided, it's the lack of images that forces me to look, not at the outside world, but at my inner landscape.

I read the tanka yet again.

Grief. Loss. Fear. They hit me in the face like a fist, then slip inside and settle in my bones and in my heart. The poet is not telling me how to feel, yet I'm immediately consumed by the narrator's loss. I, too, can't find my bearings in this unfamiliar world.

Whether we lose a parent, spouse, child or close friend, intense grief teaches us that profound personal experiences influence who we are and who or what we might become. Are we no longer a caregiver, a father, a dependent, or a soulmate? Will our personality or behavior change? Have we become an only child, a single parent, or the last of our generation? Who am I without you?

Although emotions - not images, juxtapositions, or analogies - carry this tanka to the top of my list of favourites, I also appreciate the musicality produced by the phrasing of each line, the sibilance, and the bi-partite structure of this heartfelt verse.

We often say there are no words to express our grief, but it's a poet's job to find them. Carol has wisely chosen common vocabulary and, out of 18 words, all but two are single syllables. The tanka's simplicity is part of the reason why 'suddenly' will stay in my memory for quite some time.

Lorraine Haig's 'the patter'-a poem that fits all my personal criteria for a successful tanka- ended in second place on my list of favourites.

       the patter
       of moths against glass
       her first night
       in the nursing home
       lit by a corridor of light

Most of us will be familiar with the opening scene and can probably feel the panic of moths trying to reach the light. What an apt comparison between them and this woman on her first night in the nursing home. Is she also reaching for the light-both literal and metaphorical?

With its vivid images, lovely sounds, and effective analogy, Haig's 'patter' pulled me in one direction while Raisfeld's 'suddenly' tugged me in another. Picking my absolute favourite was a difficult decision, but the weight of emotion won me over at the finish line.

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Margaret L. Grace
An Appraisal by Kathy Kituai

 

casting a stone
into a billabong
broken reflections —
I return his house key
but not the dog we shared

— Margaret L. Grace

Out of the five tanka I had shortlisted for the next Scribblers Award — all worthy and well-written, the standard is high in Eucalypt — this tanka by Margaret Grace offers just that little extra and lingers for several reasons. Firstly, it embraces not just one quality said to be the original content of tanka, but all three; love loss and longing. Even though it is concerned with the past, Margaret doesn't use that all too easy abstraction reached for far too often in tanka, the word 'memory'. Instead her images show what is meant and guides us onto a deeper level. This was an unfathomable love. The protagonist needed time to decide what to do, leave or stay. Longing for something to remain the same, she keeps the dog,

The location where casting the stone takes place, is a billabong; 'a backwater channel that forms a lagoon or pool' (Collins Pocket English Dictionary) familiar to Australians as a place of stillness easy to mull things over in. The protagonist has stepped backwards in time, is reconsidering whether or not to continue on in a relationship, and to do this she skims stones over water, a well-known meditative ploy. Because of the way it is written, it's easy to insinuate oneself into such a setting. This is not unlike the way the swagman thought things through by watching and waiting 'til the billy boiled beside a billabong in the iconic Australian song, Waltzing Matilda.

Casting a stone shatters images reflecting on the surface of water where the stone hits it before moving on to the next point of contact. Keeping the dog can be likened to this and if equated to the casting of a stone (perhaps the first) in the biblical sense, injures. This was 'their' dog, a shared love. Her partner will suffer and feel judged. And will grieve. She is the one who will pat and pamper their pet whenever it licks her face, jumps up to greet her home. Although a house key opens the door to all the furnishings, physical comforts and material goods, it's no comparison to what was quite possibly the only way they expressed tenderness and joy. Most relationships, no matter how badly they end, contain moments worth remembering. She may not necessarily be taking the dog to cause harm to her partner.

Last but not least, the alliteration of billabong and broken, and the way in which 'broken reflections' acts as a pivot, but not in a straightforward sense, draws attention to what is at the base of her actions. She is not only breaking the surface of the billabong, she is destroying 'what was', and contravening all that was of worth. The placement of this phrase marries both parts of the tanka together.

Kathy Kituai

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Jan Foster
An Appraisal by Margaret L Grace

 

 

       another loss . . .
       don't show me a map
       I know
       this journey of grief
       by heart

             — Jan Foster

Not an easy task having to choose from such a great collection of poems — with their metaphors, images, pivots, shifts in time and humour, "the owl who couldn't give two hoots" . . . loss and longing . . .fantasy and dreams, Maria Steyn facing her fears . . . and Michael Thorley's Good Friday tanka.

Jan Foster's tanka reflects a heavy burden of sadness, sparse in its presentation yet speaks a thousand words and with the pivot, I know, tells us, facing death is not her first time.

The second line, don't show me a map, is a strong directive to well-meaning people
who want to discuss the stages of grief that one may expect to journey through. The map she refers to is symbolic of this advice she doesn't want.

The brevity of this tanka, like a winter tree, is enough to show us the author's mood.

Many poets in this issue are winners. It was a difficult choice between Sonja Arntzen, bargaining with herself, page 37 and Michael Lester page 42 On the wings . . . such tenderness.

Margaret L Grace

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Jan Foster
An Appraisal by Carol Raisfeld

 

       another loss . . .
       don't show me a map
       I know
       this journey of grief
       by heart

             — Jan Foster

Immediately, this poem caught my eye and stopped me. I read it again and again, finding new depths each time. Perhaps because of the simplicity of the words and the reality of the journey, it lingered. The poet is not wanting gratuitous words from those that may not know the feelings of "another loss", genuine though they seem. Words cannot cloak her in comfort, as she knows again, that feeling of loss in a cloud of grief. In every line the poignancy resonated deep within me. My heart was truly touched. In this tanka, each word speaks volumes.

Yet, I feel a disquiet and wanting, perhaps a longing. The surrounding sadness she wishes would go away, and not sure that this new loss will travel the same journey. Still, not wanting to be shown another map through the stages of grief, or what to expect...she knows what to expect. I love that there is so much dreaming room here. In her grief, there is a feeling that the poet knows well her heart of hearts. There will always be a setting sun and a rising moon. It is a lovely sensitive tanka that will captivate many readers who have experienced sad times, as Jan apparently has.

Carol Raisfeld

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Elliot Nicely
An Appraisal by Jan Foster

 

 

       hospice care
       the way she quietly combs
       sunlight
       into his hair
       with her fingers

             — Elliot Nicely

After reading all the excellent tanka in this issue several times, I waited a few days to see which lingered in my mind. While several beckoned, I found myself returning again and again to this one. Such a simple image, yet so profoundly powerful, it holds many of the qualities I respect in a classical tanka. Not a single word could be changed, removed or added to improve it, the image is of such tenderness and caring that it takes my breath away. The dreaming room is endless – who is she? Who is he? Does it matter? With life slipping away (hospice care), the sense of touch reminds the one dying of their own humanity and connection to life (sunlight). The simple gesture restores dignity to the patient when not much else can.

The shape of the poem is classical, the clarity and wealth of meaning breath-taking. The simplicity of expression is something all tanka poets strive for. Well done, Elliot.
 

 

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Liz Lanigan
An Appraisal by Jan Foster

 

       click and pop
       a dubbin tin
       on sunday nights
       our shiny school shoes
       line up at the door

             — Liz Lanigan

After many readings through this issue of Eucalypt, I found this tanka kept returning to my attention. At first reading, it made me smile because it brought back memories of performing just that messy task ahead of Monday morning’s assembly at our small school. Puzzled by its insistent appeal, I went back to examine it analytically and realised it met several of my standards in good tanka.

There are no unnecessary words, but those chosen are perfect for their sound and balanced by the lyrical rhythm in different lines. The click and pop of the small, flat, round tin of shoe polish made exactly that sound when opened. Then came the abundance of ‘s’ sounds in lines 3 and 4, mimicking the rhythmic brushing and buffing of the brush and cloth as it spread the polish. Then comes the last line of single syllables concluding our image as each shoe is dropped into place, the task done for another week.

Musicality and flow are vital in building an image with sound. Tanka, after all, did evolve from waka, a short song. A delightful poem, showing tanka doesn’t have to be deep and meaningful to succeed. Well done, Liz.

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Mary Kendall
An Appraisal by Elliot Nicely

 

 

       without warning
       a leaf rises in the wind 
       then tumbles —
       our need for forgiveness
       so unexpected, too

             — Mary Kendall

For the Distinctive Scribbling Award, I've selected Mary Kendall's "without warning." As Kendall's writing contains a number of techniques interwoven with such mastery, she has created an absolutely exceptional tanka for this issue of Eucalypt. To begin, the author uses alliteration (the "w" sound) to mimic the sound of the wind that is responsible for the leaf's slow ascent throughout the first two lines. Kendall, furthermore, gives gradual rise to this leaf with her intentional wordiness by using eleven syllables. However, when the leaf tumbles in the third line, the author punctuates the point by using a new alliterative sound, and she uses just two syllables here to exemplify the speed of the leaf's unexpected and disappointing fall. The brilliant use of contrasts between the first two lines and the third line also foreshadows for the reader another turn in the writing, which takes place in the tanka's fourth and fifth lines.

In the fourth and fifth lines, Kendall shifts from the objective to a subjective perspective, while also shifting the focus from the leaf (a concrete noun) to a moment of personal introspection - forgiveness (which exists only in the abstract ). It's also in the fourth line of the tanka that Kendall alters the poem's point of view. The first three lines are written from a third-person point of view, but, then, Kendall uses the em dash to signal a switch to first-person point of view.

Kendall also draws attention to this shift by abandoning the use of alliteration in the last two lines and shocks us by introducing an altogether new technique to the poem: assonance ( with the repetition of the letter "o"). However, the reader must be careful here, because there's more than meets the eye. If we read the tanka aloud, Kendall isn't using assonance at all, because the letter "o" produces a different sound in each word in the poem's closing lines, which creates dissonance for the reader while also illustrating the speaker's vexation toward the issue of forgiveness.

And while this is a poem of contrasts, there is an intentional similarity between this single leaf's disappointing detachment from its tree and our own disappointment with ourselves (without warning) as we have found ourselves separated from someone as a result of our own doing.

 

 

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David Terelinck
An Appraisal by Liz Lanigan

 

       the way her tears
       are suddenly mine
       how large
       her children’s eyes, how small
       their empty rice bowls

             — David Terelinck

The tanka that I have chosen for the latest Scribbler’s Award is a perfect example of the beauty and power of the form. It takes us to a place that most of us have never experienced directly and have probably only witnessed on TV footage, perhaps with a pre-emptive warning, this report may contain images that some viewers may find disturbing.’ The poem speaks of a mother and her famished children with words that wrench our hearts. But how does David achieve this?

The first two lines the way her tears/ are suddenly mine, expresses our human capacity (not always fulfilled) for love, empathy and compassion - feeling another’s pain and suffering, as if it were our own. There is so much food for thought in these words. I consider my own capacity for empathy. I know of human suffering on a global scale ‘second hand’ through news reports about war and famine and the rest but I cannot always cope with the emotions that this awareness brings. I sometimes ‘turn off’ and ‘tune out’, perhaps because I feel impotent, incapable of relieving their plight, or perhaps because I feel a sense of separation, an ‘us’ and ‘them’ mentality which I’m uncomfortable with, as I believe it to be the root of so many problems on this earth where only ‘we’ reside. I was taken to William Blake’s poem, ‘On Another’s Sorrow’.

               Can I see another’s woe,
               And not be in sorrow too?
               Can I see another’s grief,
               And not seek for kind relief?

All this from just seven words? The poet’s magic.

What about that word suddenly? Considering its purpose in the poem, apart from adding to the rhythm of the line, I took it out – the way her tears are mine. The effect is no longer the same. No longer am I urged to read more. Somehow, by adding suddenly, we’re shown that this reaction comes, not from any ongoing connection with another person’s sorrow, but instantly, authentically, straight from the heart, bypassing the analytic mind.

And now to the third line, how large. This is a subtle pivot referring to both the size of the woman’s tears and the children’s eyes. Large tears don’t gush from our eyes but form slowly, quietly, until they drip down our cheeks. This is no hysterical outburst. This is a profound sadness that speaks of a despair beyond grief. And her children’s eyes are also large. In my mind’s eye I see starving children staring at the camera with a vacant look, their cheeks sunken, their stomachs swollen, their bodies emaciated and their heads like skulls.

But it is only when we read … how small/ their empty rice bowls that we learn the reason for the mother’s tears. Here lies the punch line. And here we are in the so-called developed world, contributing to global warming with our un-composted food waste.

Perhaps it is the poet’s restraint that enables this tanka to evoke so much emotion. We don’t need the word ‘mother’ to know this mother’s sense of hopelessness. We don’t need words like hunger to know what small empty rice bowls portray. Is the rhythm of the poem achieved by single-syllabled words broken only by suddenly, children’s and empty? Perhaps. Does the soulful sound come from the alliteration of ‘l’ and ‘s’ – tears, suddenly, large, children, small, rice and bowls? I think so.

There is so much to appreciate in this poem, and so much to learn about how to write a successful tanka. Thank you, David for this great contribution to the tanka world.

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Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti
An Appraisal by David Terelinck

 

 

       just currawong song
       and a rolling landscape 
       in green and brown
       I wish I could hide here
       a few decisions longer

             — Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti

There are times in life where tanka is the perfect vehicle to capture and reflect the current path of one’s life. The pithiness of these concentrated poems often speaks to a reader on a deeper level than lengthy poems and prose. Tanka have the ability to cut to the chase and immediately take the reader to the heart of the issue. They become a form of creative expression we can relate to in a heartbeat.

Our journey through this corporeal world is often a delicate balancing act. And this can become harder as we get older, more responsibilities lodge on our shoulders, health begins to decline, and we have to bear the weight of some difficult decisions. Moments come and go; some gentle times we wish would linger as they allow us respite from the troubles of life. The more burdensome travails we hope pass quickly. Either way, this journey we call life is one where nothing is static and some moments in it are fleeting.

I was reading ‘Travels with a Writing Brush: Classical Japanese Travel Writing from the Manyoshu to Basho’ – translated by Meredith McKinney – when Eucalypt 27 arrived in the post. And I was struck with a phrase on the back cover of the book that resonated with me: “Oh journey upon journey, my life is a brief moment, and I cannot hope that we will meet again.”

This stayed in my mind with every subsequent reading of the journal. Particularly because this has been a very difficult year in our household due to ill-health. There have been multiple journeys through hospitalization and surgery. Many decisions had to be made as a result. And as acclimatized as one can become to medical consults, hospital admissions, and making choices, no one is an exact duplicate of another. As similar as some experiences are, we never actually meet them again in the same way.

This phrase, and the concept of tanka about travel, either to physical places or metaphorically through life, kept drawing me back to what has become my Distinctive Scribbling winner for Eucalypt 27. I selected a poem that deeply resonated with me because of how it summed up my emotional state about wanting to delay some of the decisions along this journey of 2019:

       just currawong song
       and a rolling landscape 
       in green and brown
       I wish I could hide here
       a few decisions longer

             — Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti

This classically shaped tanka felt like it had been written specifically for my situation; as if the poet perfectly understood what I was going through as a reader. How I have longed this year for those quiet reflective moments of rolling landscapes and birdsong; a place of refuge to hide from, and delay, the inevitable decisions and next steps that have to be taken. And I expect I am not Robinson Crusoe in feeling that. We live in an age where, at times, it is difficult to hide and to get away from it all. Social media, cell phones, instant messaging, video conferencing . . . it seems we are contactable 24/7 in this modern age of communication. And with contact comes decisions to be made; both small and innocuous, but also life changing.

The tanka opens specifically with a named bird. Anyone whom has heard a currawong in full voice knows how melodic and soothing their song is. It is natural music that can captivate a listener and take them away from thoughts of everyday life. There is a gentle rhyme in ‘currawong song’ that is pleasing to the ear of the reader. Carolyn very clearly understands the value of specificity and when to apply this in tanka. To have written ‘just bird song’ would not have the same effect as naming the bird here.

The use of ‘just’ also indicates this place of rolling landscape is far removed from the sounds of the daily traffic of life. No vehicles, no human voices, no sounds of industry. This is a place absent of the frantic actions of every-day living. And in this age of booming technology and population expansion, these small pockets of sanctuary are dwindling. Which means they are sought-after and deeply valued. And it is within this idyllic landscape that the poet has found rest from the hurly-burly of life. A place of quiet reflection and contemplation that we wish would last a little longer.

And then we have the denouement; the final two lines are the caveat on this emotional retreat. One can escape to these places for respite, but we must always return to the demands of our life’s journey; we must make choices. Decide on one option over another. Life will not stand still in a landscape of birdsong and rolling hills, as much as we sometimes desire it. We can hide for a bit, but we can’t abdicate and disappear. And Carolyn shows apt understanding that her narrator respects this and knows they must return to daily life. But oh, how good would it be to stay in hiding until another decision or two passes us by!

The tanka is lyrical and musical, and rolls gently off the tongue, much like the landscape it reveals. There is also much dreaming room within this expertly crafted tanka. We do not need to know the exact location of this escape, nor the nature of the decisions that must be made. It is for the reader to place themselves in the frame in respect of these elements. On each reading, this poem offers such deep insight into our need for balance in life. The necessity of those important times of birdsong and rolling hills, fleeting as they may be, to counter the non-step insistence of choices that must be made.

As always, Eucalypt 27 is filled with exceptional tanka of the highest quality. Apart from Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti’s Distinctive Scribbling winner, I would like to say how much I enjoyed the following two tanka that stayed with me on the journey of reading this issue over and over:

       eucharist moon
       among immaculate stars
       two bodies
       overlapping
       like a sacrament

              Pamela A Babusci

      a night so cold
      the window fills with steam
      my raised finger
      wantonly drifts into
      the hazard of your name

              Michele L Harvey

 

 

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Anne Benjamin
An Appraisal by Mary Kendall

 

       red anemones
       blue doves in a swirl of vines
       on the kilim
       simply lovely things emerge
       from knotted intricacies

             — Anne Benjamin

What an honour to select a tanka from a collection of the finest tanka from around the world. Eucalypt never lets us down, and this issue is no exception. I read and re-read all of the beautiful tanka many times before narrowing down my choice. In the end I realized that this particular tanka, “red anemones” by Anne Benjamin kept drawing me back. The lushness of descriptive words (red anemones, blue doves, swirl of vines, knotted intricacies) are the obvious draw, but it is the masterful structure of the tanka that balances them and keeps them from becoming too rich in words. The poet has used the classic S/L/S/L/L tanka form to give structure to her rich and fluid images. The unexpected pivot line, “on the kilim” is masterful. On first reading the tanka, the first two lines dazzled me with their imagery and colour but then they were promptly grounded by the pivot line, so I became aware that the red anemones and blue doves really were on the kilim and not in some fantasy world.

From the pivot line, the tanka flows into a simple statement, “simply lovely things emerge / from knotted intricacies.” Yes, the dazzling images of the kilim are woven from wool strands and knotted into a rug. Ah, but hold on, please—not so fast! With her final line, “from knotted intricacies,” Anne Benjamin quietly stops us and forces us to look closer at what we really see. The beautiful, colourful kilim woven with great skill and imagination—all this from strands of wool dyed into many colours, probably from sources such as plant roots, onion skins, leaves, crushed minerals—but what else has it become? It has become a flying carpet of the imagination—a place for dreaming.

Where else but in a brilliant poem of five brief lines can your mind wander from wool strands to blue doves flying in a swirl of vines? Is it in the air, the sky, a garden, the actual floor or the imagination? This special kilim is without boundaries. Benjamin has taken us on a magical trip from “simply lovely things” to “knotted intricacies.” The beauty of those two words – “knotted intricacies” – provides all the dreaming room we could ever want. Where does this magic carpet take you as a reader? I know that the more I read this tanka and let the words play on my tongue and my imagination, the higher and further my thoughts soar.

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Christopher Pieterszoon Routheut
An Appraisal by Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti

 

 

       calm water —
       over the old village,
       fish leap
       cloud to
       cloud

             — Christopher Pieterszoon Routheut

Having read Issue 28 of Eucalypt: a tanka journal just once on the day it arrived, the next morning I was astounded that three poems had so impressed me that I was able to recite them word for word. One of these became my Distinctive Scribbles Award choice for several reasons:

The past months in Australia have been unsettling. Government directives designed to curtail the spread of COVID-19 have put paid to familiar routines, travel, and much of our social contact. And with the world’s news almost too depressing to bear in other than short snatches, I believe poets can embrace two very different but equally important aims: to capture moments that speak of our fears and yearnings, and to endeavour to buoy our spirits.

Just as Beverley George suggests turning to Wind in the Willows as an antidote to today’s ‘gloomy news’ in her charming tanka on p25, Christopher Pieterszoon Routheut’s quirky image of fish leaping ‘cloud to cloud’ gifted to me a moment of pure delight in what had been an emotionally trying week.

In just 13 smoothly flowing syllables, and without using the words ‘reflection’ or ‘mirror’, this poet communicates his detailed observation in a far more interesting way than if he had simply spelt out the reality. It is left to the reader to jump from the split second of confusion caused by fish over the old village to the ‘I get it!’ moment of realisation that the fish are leaping, not in the sky, but into the reflection of the sky in the water.

Of course, each reader will imagine a different body of calm water. Mine was an English canal; others may see a Scottish loch, an Australian river, or the sea, etc. The ‘fish’ this generic word conjures will be different, too. However, in these cases, I don’t think non-specificity is detrimental.

Tickled by this complex image so expertly crafted in simple words (most just one syllable; with the effect redolent of the fish breaking the water’s surface), I shared it with family who profess to not ‘get’ tanka. Without exception, this accessible little poem elicited the same reaction – a broad smile of understanding.

Despite the appealing surprise element of this tanka, subsequent readings did not diminish my enjoyment. It reminds me of the unexpected joys to be found in nature if we calm ourselves, step even a short distance from our front doors, and open our eyes and hearts to them. Now more than ever, we need moments and poems that make our spirits soar like Christopher Pieterszoon Routheut’s cloud-leaping fish.

 

 

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Sonja Arntzen
An Appraisal by Anne Benjamin

 

       ninety-two
       this eminent scholar
       as bent from
       study as though she had
       planted rice her whole life

             — Sonja Arntzen

As usual, I opened my copy of Eucalypt 28, with anticipation. There’s always an option for me in how I approach each issue of Eucalypt: either I find a comfortable place and read it greedily from cover to cover in one sitting as though it is a contraband serving of the finest dark chocolate served with a rich red shiraz; my second approach is to nibble at it, a few pages at a time, over a few days. Usually, I do both.

With this issue, I was conscious that I had been asked to select one tanka that stood out. I saved this task up for my third reading. Choosing just one tanka for a Distinctive Scribbling Award from Eucalypt 28 was not simple. The task was both challenging and enjoyable. From a short list of ten tanka that stood out from many, I continued to read, distance myself and then return. Finally, I chose Sonja Arntzen’s tanka which had taken my eye even on my first greedy read.

Sonja Arntzen has created an image that is immediate and compelling in the opening two lines: the simplicity of the age, “ninety-two”, and “this eminent scholar” convey to me a world of people I know and admire. There is a quality resounding through these two lines. Line 3, “as bent from”, is not a typical tanka line, ending as it does with a preposition, something many poets would normally avoid. The poet could have included “study” at the end of line 3 and still kept to the traditional short 5-syllable line length. She chooses, however, to break with the preposition, which in my reading, adds a nice emphasis to “study” when it appears at the beginning of Line 4.

The power of this tanka for me resides in the remainder of the tanka, “as though she had/planted rice her whole life”. There is, of course, a lovely surprise in the image itself – the conjunction of scholar and agricultural worker. As a woman academic, I should not have been surprised that the eminent scholar was a woman. And yet, there it was, a slight jolt to long-ingrained stereotypes that eminent scholars are male. I am mortified by my own response of surprise.

There is much more to these last two lines. Those who have ever watched rice being planted, for example, in a country like India, will recall that it is mostly women who are stooped over the flooded muddy runnels, separated by clay bunds, as they embed each rice plant, one by one. It is slow work, patient, hand-done, back-breaking under a hot sun. For me, the deliberate planting of each rice seedling is a powerful image of the slow patient work of a scholar, working often in isolation on her particular passion. And such work is back-breaking too over time. As the poet has warned us in Line 3.

Finally, the image of rice adds another dimension. Rice is the stuff of life. It is the basic food of billions of people in our world. Life-giving, sustaining, nourishing. So too Sonja’s scholar has planted life-giving potential through her own dedication, persistence and commitment to her study – pushing into new areas, adding depth to our understanding of existing knowledge, always – because this is a scholar’s brief – in search of truth. Thank you, Sonja Arntzen, for enriching my day.

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Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti
An Appraisal by Kathy Kituai (nominated as judge by C P Routheut)

 

 

       jasmine tendrils
       climb the nursing home’s wall
       long and wild
       after months in lockdown
       my proud mother’s un-styled hair

             — Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti

It would be easy to presume that the last line in this tanka — ‘my proud mother’s un-styled hair’ — suggests that the poet’s mother is vain, cares far too much about her appearance and little more. After all we are told her mother takes pride in her hair. However, I doubt if many readers would be that mistaken.

This tanka was published during 2020, a year that will go down in history as one in which most people, especially our elderly in nursing homes, suffered because of Covid-19. The point being made in this tanka is, given the lockdown and lack of friends and relatives access to nursing homes, there was no way a resident’s loved ones could take care of them or check to see if they were being looked after.

Not even gardeners would have had access to the nursing home grounds to prune the jasmine. Having made several attempts to remove this vine from my garden, I know how relentless it can be. It runs underground, sprouts unexpectedly, takes hold and regrows elsewhere. Not only the vine and her mother’s hair were ‘long and wild’, more importantly, the pandemic was also out of control. Elderly relatives were not safe. Covid-19 entered nursing homes undetected, took hold inside, and spread elsewhere. Thousands of cases are breaking out worldwide as this appraisal is penned. The comparison between jasmine and Covid-19 is inferred, not stated outright and in the hands of as skilful a poet as Carolyn, illustrates the power of the ‘unsaid’.

Poets well-practiced in the art of writing tanka know that it’s not enough just to write about what happens or in a style that tells but doesn’t show. The reader needs to experience the essence of a poem for themself through their five senses. This is what makes this tanka memorable. Carolyn engages us with what is seen, along with what is heard; the chill of silence permeating her mother’s bedroom. No familiar footsteps and voices resonated around her room. No-one lovingly combed her hair. And think how tortuous the absence of laughter would have been.

This short song is not only filled with the musicality of alliteration and assonance in these words—‘long’ and ‘lockdown’—the refrain of ‘climb-wild-un-styled’ echoes throughout. Given that numerous tanka published in this issue (29) of Eucalypt are in response to Covid-19, my choice of one that stood out for this appraisal was made all the more difficult.

Carolyn’s tanka is not only well written, it’s heartfelt.

 

 

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Margi Abraham
An Appraisal by Sonja Arntzen

 

       beyond
       the flare of city lights
       our southern cross
       swings up —
       I find my bearings

             — Margi Abraham

Reading through many of the “Scribblings” appraisals in preparation for writing this one, I was glad to see one could mention other tanka that struck one as exceptional. For me, the “lump in the throat” award went to Barbara Haworth’s poem about the dandelion bouquet. It evoked the purity of a child’s giving. And to test whether it was not my own soft heartedness in this respect that made the poem powerful, I read it to my husband, who hates dandelions and expends enormous effort trying to eradicate them from our garden. He said, “That’s good. It says it all!” Beverley George’s tanka about the ivory carving was a close runner-up for me too. I loved its juxtaposition of past and present, the personal and global, affection and sad realization.

What kept me coming back to Margi Abraham’s tanka was the power in its individual words. “Flare” is so accurate for the way cities throw up light into the atmosphere. Then “our” for Southern Cross made it not a general constellation, but the constellation of the antipodes. Crossing deserts and seas, we humans have developed a fellow feeling for constellations, even though they are just figments of our perception from here on planet earth. Every time I see Orion in this northern hemisphere, I greet him as an old friend. Then, “southern cross” conjures the romance of the age of exploration when, for good and for ill, reckless and ambitious men from the north learned to chart star paths to the far south. It reminded me of lines in Canadian song writer Stan Rogers’s “Lockkeepers” where he has a wayfaring sailor challenge a lockkeeper, “Come with me to where the southern cross rides high upon your shoulder. / Come with me, each day you tend this lock, you’re one day older and your blood runs colder.’’ Then, “swings up” for the constellation taking its place in the heavens evokes when body and mind have been still just long enough to experience the rise of a constellation as a “swinging up.” I imagine the poet having driven out of a city to some wild, open space, the relief of stopping, of finding one’s own self again. In the final line, “bearings” comes as a metaphor for that experience and calls up again the whole history of seafaring.

This tanka is about an experience on land, but its figurative use of seafaring lore captivated the heart of this fisherman’s daughter.

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Carole MacRury
An Appraisal by Margi Abraham

 

 

       the calcium rattle
       of empty sea-tossed shells —
       I gather them
       as I gathered your bony hands
       into the warmth of my own

             — Carole MacRury

 

It is a special privilege to choose and appraise a tanka from the many excellent ones in the current issue of Eucalypt, which celebrates its 30th issue. I was delighted by the simple elegance of Srinivas S’s a vow of silence and jolted by the power of Tony Beyer’s bird’s-eye view. However, I kept coming back to this tanka by Carole MacRury, which expresses so poignantly the very personal, yet universal, experience of caring for frail and old people, whether they be a parent, a partner, or a friend.

I was immediately drawn to the compelling first line. Only three words make this unusual image, but it piqued my curiosity about what ‘the calcium rattle’ could be. It is a vivid, sonic image. I could hear it.

Line two eloquently explains what is rattling – ‘empty sea-tossed shells’. They could be rolling against each other as waves break on the beach or perhaps being rolled and crunched under foot. The longer line two, extended by an em dash, has a lulling cadence and a subtle stress on ‘empty’ and ‘shells’ which foreshadows the last two lines of the poem. I can hear and see the shells.

In line three, the poet gathers the shells; a simple, common act when walking along a beach. I like the contrast of ‘I gather them’ after the more complex wording of lines one and two. It also slows the pace of the tanka. The image infers action by the poet’s hands, picking up and holding the shells. I can feel the shells in my hand.

In the longer line four, the arc of the tanka pivots and becomes personal to both the poet and to me. There is a sorrowful memory of holding frail, bony hands, indicated by use of the past tense. Yet the image is very real and present. I can feel those hands, just as I held my elders’ as they dwindled in old age. It feels as if those old hands are ‘shells’ of what they once were, linking back to lines one and two.

I perceive a pause after a crescendo at the end of line four. There is a beautiful denouement in the last line, with its gentle memory of holding frail and bony hands in the loving warmth of the poet’s hands, giving strength and protection. We are reminded that we share our structure with nature and that under our flesh, we are just calcium bone, like the myriad shells tossed on the shore.

This is such a deftly wrought and compassionate “short song”, carefully woven with a delicate musicality and fresh, evocative images. It has a powerful trajectory from the simple act of collecting empty shells to the expression of love in holding hands. It holds me.

Margi Abraham

 

 

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Mary Kendall
An Appraisal by Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti

 

       sooty spirals
       of chimney swifts
       chittering as they soar —
       so much of our lives
       spent following others

             — Mary Kendall

 

There is a wealth of evocative tanka in the 30th issue of Eucalypt: a tanka journal. This made choosing just one to appraise a difficult task.

After much re-reading, I found myself torn between birds – Aron Rothstein’s vanishing barred owl, and Mary Kendall’s chittering chimney swifts. However, Kendall’s delightful surge of birds stayed with me as I went about my day. It also elicited different responses on subsequent readings.

In this tanka, the poet skilfully uses metaphor, alliterations, assonance, as well as multiple senses to share a fleeting experience. The reader can see as well as hear the chimney swifts leave their vertically secured nests in unison to rise into the sky like a curlicue of smoke. The word ‘chittering’ is onomatopoeic for the high-pitched tremulous sounds they make.

The poet then comments, ‘so much of our lives / spent following others’. I noted the poet’s choice of the word ‘spent’. Referring to something being used up, this relatively unemotive word cleverly leaves the reader free to make their own judgement about this aspect of human nature and the society in which we live. I found myself wondering what words I might have substituted for ‘spent’ in this tanka at different times in my life. Wasted, enjoyed, exhaustedly and securely all came to mind.

Named after their propensity to nest on vertical structures, as well as their speedy flight, chimney swifts usually mate for life. Pairs also perform mating dances in which one flies behind the other. Humans, like these birds, are gregarious. We have a history of living, working, learning, worshiping, fighting, and playing, in packs – each with their own leaders. Sometimes this following of others comes at the detriment of our own dreams.

Just as a flock of chimney swifts move with fast changes of direction, many people slavishly follow frenetically changing trends set by fashion designers, marketers or today’s social media influencers. On re-reading Mary Kendall’s tanka after perusing several vacuous posts on social media, it came to mind that ‘following’ in her last line works as in to ‘follow’ others on social media platforms. How apt that ‘chitter’ is a synonym for ‘twitter’!

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Mira Walker
An Appraisal by Mary Kendall

 

 

       half moon
       tobogganing down
       my skylight frame . . .
       the hurtling, halting
       ways of winter dreams

             — Mira Walker

 

Issue #31 of Eucalypt: a tanka journal was (as all issues of Eucalypt are) a joy to read. Half the honour of the Distinctive Scribblings Award is having a tanka selected and closely analyzed by another tanka poet. The other half of this honour is moving to the other side of the table to select a tanka worthy of being chosen. It's not an easy task. I can't count how many times I read issue #31. My "shortlist" contained twelve tanka. I typed them up so I could read them as a group. I read them silently, and I read them aloud. I narrowed them down to six and finally to three. Quite often I wondered how on earth Julie Thorndyke (and Beverley George before her) managed to choose poems for the journal. What an immense and challenging task!

As an American, this issue made me think a lot about how Australia and New Zealand dealt with the strict pandemic restrictions. Elaine Riddell's "on my sanctioned walk" forced me to think of how hard it would be to be so confined, but the poet found beautiful golden wattle to brighten the dark days we are living through. Her poem also made me think about how much fresh flowers have meant to me in the two years of the pandemic. They remind us of the simple beauty out there.

So many of the tanka alluded to the pandemic. I loved Hazel Hall's "our need / to be more gentle / now we cannot hug" for its reminder of how important kindness and tolerance are. Sally Biggar's "our final visit" moved me to tears as it evoked the image of forced separation even as death grew closer for the person confined inside the hospital/hospice. Gail Hennessey notes that while we remain masked, our eyes must carry our smiles. So true. Other tanka spoke of distance and loneliness, isolation, even holding off on burying a loved one's ashes (Lorraine Haig) until the pandemic is over. I felt deeply moved by these beautiful tanka. Covid-19 has cost everyone in ways that cannot be undone, and still it continues.

The themes of darkness and dreams, darkness versus light also figured large in this issue. Jan Foster's line, "I wonder have I woken into someone else's life" and Crys Smith's "who am I?" struck me with their powerful realization that we are not the same people we were before Covid-19 entered our lives. The past two years have felt very surreal at times. Time stands still or rushes ahead without us counting the days.

Returning to the poem I finally selected-Mira Walker's "half moon tobogganing," I fell in love with its amazing imagery, structure, and recognition that winter dreams, especially in pandemic times, are hard on all of us. Who among us hasn't had some sleepless nights or harsh dreams? Who hasn't had trouble putting everything aside and trying to slip into sleep peacefully?

Let's look at this lovely tanka and see how Mira Walker makes a simple image come alive.

       half moon
       tobogganing down
       my skylight frame . . .
       the hurtling, halting
       ways of winter dreams

The poet has written a very concise, classic tanka with a 2/5/4/5/5 syllable count. Fourteen words and not a one wasted or extraneous. All tanka should be read aloud and felt on the tongue. Reading this one aloud lets you feel the balance and musicality of this verse. When you get to line four (the hurtling, halting) you feel the speed, the hesitation, and the push ahead. Her use of a comma/caesura in that line is perfect.

Walker presents a dazzling and quite unexpected image for her subject-a half moon tobogganing! And how does she see this? Not in the night sky alone in its vastness, but instead through the small rectangle of a skylight at night. Is she looking at a quarter moon (appearing as a 'half' moon) or a more playful crescent that could naturally slide (i.e., toboggan) down the frame? This need to reread the poem and think about the image is what caught my attention and kept it. I recall as a small girl, my whole family going tobogganing in snowy Buffalo, New York (USA), hurtling down a hill, tumbling down and often with all of us ending up off the sled, covered in snow and full of laughter. It's a happy scene, but look what Walker now does. She gives us a long pause with an ellipsis before the "winter dreams" in all their tumult appear. Winter dreams-deep dreams, often dark dreams, thoughtful dreams, memories woven in them and so many images suddenly popping up here and there. The dreams are "hurtling, halting" making you catch your breath and perhaps wake up in a sweat of anxiety or even fear. Yet the poet phrases this as the "ways of winter dreams" using the softness of alliterative "ways" and "winter" to contrast with the previous line's alliterative but harsher "hurtling, halting." Masterful indeed.

I'd like to commend every poet whose work appeared in this issue. You've provided hours of pleasure and reflection, and you've made our poetic world that much richer.

 

 

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Jan Foster
An Appraisal by Carole MacRury

 

       lockdown —
       in the shifting shadows
       as night fades
       I wonder have I woken
       into someone else’s life

             — Jan Foster

 

It is a pleasure to be asked to choose the Distinctive Scribble Award from Eucalypt Issue 31, 2021. My thanks to Margi Abraham for allowing me this privilege by choosing my poem from the previous issue. It's never easy narrowing down possibilities from an issue filled with such excellent poetry. But I eventually winnowed my selections down to about a dozen poems. The effects of our covid reality remains with us as evidenced through several of these poems, yet others reflected moments of joy, hope, or an acceptance of the new reality of our existence. Which would I choose?

I looked for poems that felt fresh and used language that made the poem sing. Alliteration, assonance, consonance, figurative language: all contribute to making a poem memorable.
Ultimately, I settled on four poems, two very much in tune with our covid lives, and two very much full of life going on, despite Covid, through the birth of new life. All four tanka reflected good tanka form and attention to language.

In the end, I found each equally deserving, but I chose the poem that most reflected my own state of mind during this past year. Jan Foster's excellent tanka was one I felt deeply, and it reflected my own confusion at times, when waking to another day of a restricted life. I am honored to select it for this issue's Scribble Award.

Jan has captured the way I have felt for so long now, and perhaps some of you too, and that is the disruption of our normal routines and its effect on our lives. For many it's been a period of deep self-reflection. 'Lockdown' sets the emotional tone of the poem. The next two lines 'in the shifting shadows / as night fades' speaks to those first moments of slow awakening in the morning. Shifting shadows may well be the slow appearance of the sun through curtains or blinds, but it could also be the way dreams linger before we become fully conscious. Dreams that will soon shift into the back of our minds not to be remembered. Jan has poetically captured that vulnerable moment of slow awakening when we are strangers to ourselves, to our surroundings, to our reality, until fully awake. The last two lines 'have I woken into someone else's life' so perfectly expresses this brief amnesia of self before we wake to face the reality of our Covid day. The poem is so beautifully held together with sound; the sibilance of 'shifting shadows', the assonance of 'wonder/woken' and the poem bracketed with the alliterative lockdown / life'. Thank you, Jan Foster.

I would like to highlight three other poems that I felt deserved runner-up status with a few brief appreciative comments.

       checking again
       for his covid results . . .
       outside his window
       the bus stop waits
       for the bus

        — Catherine McGrath

Another Covid poem made special by the evocative final couplet 'the bus stop waits / for the bus'. Such a fresh, original, and haunting phrase that marries so well with the worry of waiting for test results. Bus stops can be lonely places and Catherine has imbued this image with an emptiness waiting to be filled. For the bus (news) to arrive. A meaningful juxtaposition of image with an emotional state.

       the island
       welcomes the first baby
       of the year
       wood-fire smoke drifts
       from neighbor to neighbor

        — Naomi Waken

I fell in love with the intimacy of this poem, both 'the island' and 'the first baby'. We might think our own lives have become islands through Covid, but here we see a group of people surrounded by water living their lives with a togetherness specific to islanders. I am reminded of how news used to be spread in First Nations through smoke signals, and here we have the smoke and warmth of wood-fires mingling in the neighborhood as if sharing the joyful news of a new life, of life going on. A welcome hopeful tanka during these pandemic times.

       pregnant
       in a blue smock
       she holds
       that morning's light
       for three hundred years

        — Gerry Jacobson (ekphrastic)

Gerry Jacobson's poem speaks deeply to pregnancy in a way that is poetic, poignant, and metaphorical. I did not need to view the image that prompted this tanka, because it worked on its own for me. 'She holds that morning's light for three hundred years' immediately connects the past with the present through the special glow of all pregnant women waiting for the birth of their babies. Whether we relate to a painting, or to an old photograph, or to a loved one sitting right in front of us, we are reminded that 'that morning' moves into the future with each new birth.

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Liz Lanigan
An Appraisal by Jan Foster

 

 

       pounding
       pegs to pitch a tent
       on hard ground
       my hammer's head
       flies off the handle

             — Liz Lanigan

 

Selecting a tanka as the 'best' of the many excellent poems presented in Eucalypt: a tanka Journal Issue 32 was a tough call, but an enjoyable one, so many thanks to our editor, Julie, for her selections — the Gold Standard, as always. But finally, it came down for me to this one by Liz Lanigan, although Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti's on p.16 was a close second.

It was a number of things that decided my choice. First was the traditional structure — s/l/s/l/l — then the perfect placement of each word for its purpose. Every word in a tanka should earn its place, with nothing needing to be added or removed to improve it. But it was the sheer musicality of it that finally won me, Liz's choice of the plosive 'p' sounds so accurately mimicking the action it described, it flowed like a song, which is the original meaning of waka, or tanka.

Its deceptive simplicity hides the true intent of this poem, as further readings revealed it to be an analogy of life today. So much dreaming room emerged with each new journey into its depths. How many of us have felt we're pounding our heads against a wall in this turmoil-ridden world of the last few years, the 'hard ground' we tackle daily to find a place to stand our tent — until there comes the moments when emotions 'fly off the handle'? Cliches, yes, but so cleverly handled, they touch base with most of us.

The choice of so many words of one syllable to match the pounding, the 'hard ground' of life for most people just now and the poem becomes an echo of our own thoughts.

Well done on all fronts. Bravo, Liz.

 

 

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Amelia Fielden
An Appraisal by Mira Walker

 

 

       stroking slowly
       through cool blue silkiness
       I lose concern
       for things I can't control —
       the sun will set at seven

             — Amelia Fielden

 

Eucalypt: a tanka journal Issue 32 yields a rich selection of tanka in which to immerse the psyche and being. Many thanks to Julie Thorndyke and each and every contributor.

I am moved by the array of relationship portraits in various stages of fragility, transformation and yearning. Some are outstanding. 'He pats my arm' by Gavin Austin evokes experiences of touch toward an appreciation of profound grief. 'My father' by Michael Thorley creates a fluid build of associations between a parent, their child, and the teachings passing between them in surfing, and in life. Some lessons, at least, prove sorely tested in reality. 'On hard ground' by Liz Lanigan provides satisfying poetic catharsis.

The characteristic lucid depth of Barbara Curnow's poetry pervades her powerful 'the rhythm', with intimations of a poignant struggle for long term healing. By 'sewing sunflowers' Michelle Brock pays admirable homage to war and peace in Ukraine, their possible source.

Tales of the ongoing effects of recent flooding, either by bodies of water, or waves of beach pollution, are well observed respectively, by Yvonne Low and Vanessa Proctor. Further flood-affected tanka course with authenticity. The semantic ink of these images washes over this reader, and has never entirely receded.

The best examples of the traditional Japanese aesthetic of yugen, or mystery, feature elements of mystery working simultaneously, often with smoothness and continuity. This is another important trait of resonant tanka for me.

These qualities mingle in 'stroking slowly' by Amelia Fielden, whose tanka I am pleased to chose for this Award. The ease and pace of those opening words suggest a gently rhythmic and meditative motion. There is mystery on many levels in the ocean and its sheltered pools, where I first imagine the tanka taking place. There is the surrounding, womblike feel of salt water.

Every line provides the reader dreaming room. The slow stroke of the first line might suggest swimming, writing, painting, or caressing, for example. In the following, exquisite ... cool blue silkiness a corresponding sense of immersion is conveyed. By way of the poem, with arms, pen, fingers or brush we can discover that moment of flow when freestyle, touch, gaze, calligraphy or poem passes through us in an almost felt stream. Mid-poem, the pivot 'I lose concern' moves the reader smoothly between the early and concluding lines of the tanka. It is easy to identify with the subtly phrased relinquishment.

In line four, the 'things I can't control', unspecified, are left to the reader to imagine their experiences. The ultimately inescapable threat of war, the pandemic effects, the dangers of climate change, the vagaries of love, the frailties of age could each be at the periphery of this poem. The reader is able to engage as lightly as they need with their own preoccupations, or perceptions of the wider world.

The tanka's scenes also dabble on the line between what we can or can't control. If we feel we can't control something, might we then be able to later in some changed circumstance? The questions are raised yet unresolved by the poem, leaving the reader to mull.

The final line, 'the sun will set at seven', reflects a sense of inevitability and acceptance. There is also the life-loving desire to make the most of these moments before they slip by. Nightfall also signifies endings, of degrees of finality.

The upper poem and the last line, particularly, combine for me in any number of ways. I delight in the interpretive possibilities. Does a calligrapher look out and ponder the shift they have to work that evening? A performer smooth a teal shawl for a honed recital? A poet enjoy her stream of words without minding, at least for moments, whether they might live beyond herself? In Amelia's case, I guarantee they will.

Mira Walker

 

 

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Carole Harrison
An Appraisal by Liz Lanigan

 

       a chorus of frogs
       celebrate la nińa summer
       I'm grateful for
       green shoots on burnt trunks
       tadpoles in champagne puddles

             — Carole Harrison

 

Not long before Eucalypt Issue 33 arrived in the mail, I was reading an essay, 'Deepening your Reading of Tanka' by Ryland Shengzhi Li (published in Ribbons, Vol 18, No 2, 2022). He talks about a heart-led contemplative approach to reading a poem, as a way to experience the feelings and thoughts it may suggest.

So I decided to try it out on Eucalypt. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths to still my mind before reading each poem twice. I listened to any words that resonated with me; and noted the emotions these words, or the poem as a whole, evoked. After re-reading it, I closed my eyes again to be with the poem a little longer. Ryland says the only rule for contemplative reading is to be true to your heart in the present moment. And this I tried to be, even though my analytical brain sometimes intruded.

How comforting, the sound of Tony Williams' casuarina lullaby; how sad, the scene that Kent Robinson paints when … 'the sun has the temerity to rise'; and how I chuckled when the slow lament of Michael Thorley's piper left the scene, leaving emptiness and light. So many poems spoke to me for days, giving me a sense of communion with the poets and their lives. Such a satisfying experience-a source of nourishment for the soul.

But I had to narrow down my preferences (I had 25 in the first week!) to choose just one tanka for the Distinctive Scribble Award. And Carole Harrison's chorus of frogs is the one that continued to occupy my thoughts over the weeks and has influenced me to commit to practising gratitude on a daily basis.

I can hear those frogs revelling in the wetness of this la niña summer. It's a cheering sound, especially when considering their vulnerability to climate change and how so many frog species have already become extinct. I go to the Northern Rivers and think about the man who made it his life's work to document the many frog species in the region. He alerted National Parks and Wildlife to how sunscreen and deodorants were contributing to their demise, so they put up signs at Protestors Falls to prohibit tourists swimming there. I think about my childhood in England and how people would say, "Good weather for ducks," on yet another rainy day. I missed the sound of frogs in the drought years, in the bushfire years that preceded the current weather patterns, where too much rain falling on already saturated soil has flooded our rivers over and over again and destroyed so many homes and livelihoods.

I often feel despondent about the state of our planet and its future, but this tanka takes me away from a sense of hopelessness and helplessness to the idea of noting what we can be grateful for. I read an article recently by Andrew Serazin and Robert A Emmons, 'How Gratitude Can Help Combat Climate Change'. It talks about how practising gratitude on a daily basis can not only relieve our own anxiety but can contribute to healing the planet. Carole's gratitude for those green shoots on burnt trunks shows how the rain, like a miracle, has given the seemingly dead trees new life. There is indeed hope within despair.

And how I love the way she circles back to the frogs with gratitude for tadpoles in champagne puddles. I think about the frogs' celebration again and can hear the popping cork of a champagne bottle, see the bubbles fizzing in the glass as we toast the bride and groom at a wedding. Who would have thought of describing those murky puddles as champagne? But the puddles where spawn can be found often do bubble. I'm back in England, holding a child's fishing net. My brother has a jar of water at the ready. We proudly take our catch home and put a fish tank under the elm tree. Over the next months we watch the wondrous metamorphosis of our tadpoles into frogs. My grandsons did the same last spring and now we're watching the legs begin to grow and the tail begin to shrink.

So I'm grateful to you Carole for the gift of this tanka.

Thank you.

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Neal Whitman
An Appraisal by Amelia Fielden

 

       in winter
       nightfall is much like
       the dropping
       of a theatre curtain . . .
       the show is over, go home

             — Neal Whitman

 

The outstanding tanka for me in issue 33 of Eucalypt is the one by Neal Whitman, which aptly concludes this issue:

       in winter
       nightfall is much like
       the dropping
       of a theatre curtain . . .
       the show is over, go home

Although the words ' theatre curtain' are not of her times, this tanka immediately reminded me of the observations and musings recorded by Sei Shounagon in her Pillow Book, Makura no Soushi, (completed in the year 1002), and of the tone of her poetic compositions in other collections.

Following an ellipsis, the great final line of Neal's tanka, 'the show is over, go home', prevents his lyric from being a grammatical sentence, or a simple statement.

The first four lines have a universal resonance: northern hemisphere or southern hemisphere, winter nightfalls tend to be more abrupt and complete than those of any other season. At the same time, this is clearly an expression of the poet's own feeling, even though he uses no personal pronoun to specify it.

The language Neal employs is straightforward and conversational. The lines of the tanka are laid out in the traditionally desirable short/long/short/long/long rhythmic format. Again in accordance with the tradition of Japanese tanka, his 5th line is the most important one, and has the most impact on the reader. This skilful composition also shows that, unlike a commonly held belief, a pivot line is not necessary to make an excellent tanka.

A delightfully different slant on seasonal tanka. Bravo, Neal!

Congratulations

Amelia Fielden

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Michael Buckingham Gray
An Appraisal by Carole Harrison

 

       yesterday
       the whisper
       of waves
       today
       the whoosh

             — Michael Buckingham Gray

 

What an honour and a challenge to whittle down all the inspiring tanka in Eucalypt, Issue 34, 2023, to a shortlist, and then to just one. What a reward for me to sit with, read, then re-read, and learn so much in the doing. As I gathered a list of qualities to look for, the list grew longer and longer, so I decided to home in on rhythm, originality and sensory appeal. Which poem lingered longest and stimulated the senses in some way? Which poem relates to the individual but also universally?

Of the final four tanka the one that lingers longest and keeps popping into my thoughts is Michael Buckingham Gray's. It appeals both personally and universally with its alliteration and assonance, capturing so well and simply, the sounds of water lapping the shoreline. But what does it mean by 'yesterday' and 'today'? Surely, we hear the whisper and whoosh constantly and closely following each other? I wondered what else might lie beneath these five little lines.

L 1: yesterday … the immediate past / recently / not long ago
L 2: the whisper … a susurration of sound, only just audible
L 3: of waves … an expanding of the sea surface or event that builds, quickly getting bigger and bigger
L 4: today … a short sharp and harder word / right now
L 5: the whoosh … a hissing or rushing sound that gets increasingly louder

On first reading, this beautiful, gentle tanka reminded me of the beach and the sounds we love and take for granted. Further readings lead me to think the wave may be a metaphor for something topical and much bigger, like a pandemic, climate change or even the passage of time and ageing. One day there's a hint, an early warning, or a whisper. Very quickly, possibly within one day, the rolling wave event becomes louder and louder as it whooshes across the earth, unstoppable.

This deceptively simple poem invites us into the familiar, meditative place of a beach, then leads us on a journey to contemplate the big questions of now. Its endless dreaming room opens space for the reader, space to go wherever they need or wish to go. It's an unusual, minimalist tanka with only eight words in a 3, 3, 2, 2, 2 syllable pattern, but it is strong, with a big impact. Each word works well and carries so much weight, especially the final onomatopoeic word 'whoosh'. Even the overall shape of the poem and the length of the lines subtly hints of a wave building, breaking and finally spreading across the sand.

With this tanka, I can hear, see and smell the ocean … and if I close my eyes, I can almost touch and taste the salt water. Well done, Michael Buckingham Gray.

I would also like to mention the other three from my final four.

       since you passed
       our garden is distraught
       now nothing
       but sad, whistling wind
       the rust of dancing leaves

    —Tony Steven Williams

I love this tanka with its beautiful rhythm and universal theme of loss. An original way of saying how much someone is missed, from the garden's point of view. A strong and beautiful tanka with a lovely final line which I relate to on a personal level.

       whispering
       into each crease
       of the crane's wings
       a prayer for peace
       and kindness

    —Sally Biggar

The crane is a sacred bird in Japan, a symbol of hope and healing during challenging times. If a person folds one thousand origami cranes, it is said that person's wish may come true. The world is unwell, so the poet wishes for it to become well, with peace and kindness. A beautiful, meditative tanka, which inspires me to start folding cranes.

       it's in the giving
       and the giving back
       of a mason jar . . .
       mornings of coffee
       sunlight and lemon jam

    —Jim Chessing

This warm, homely tanka recalls the sunny sharing of coffee, homemade jam and preserving jars. It makes us think about a more leisurely time of growing fruit and returning empty jars, and of how important sunlight is to uplift our spirits and enable plants to grow. Lots of dreaming space here.

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Michele L. Harvey
An Appraisal by Neal Whitman/

       do not fret
       over living a quiet life
       silence
       is what every note needs
       to make music

             — Michele L. Harvey

 

The aim of tanka, as of all poetry, is not cleverness of form, but an orchestration of thoughts and feelings linked to the mystery of Life.
I welcomed the opportunity to read issue #34 tanka in the light of learning what I could discover about Life. I confess to first have drafted in the above the word, "composition", where I ultimately wrote "orchestration".

A composition can refer to a piece that is musical. But, when I settled on Michele's piece, I chose the even more musical word, orchestration. This brings to mind that the root and tradition of tanka is a short song - tan (short) ka (song).

To fret, of course, as readers are familiar with, is used in the context of being constantly or visibly worried or anxious. How clever … fret also is a musical term. On stringed instruments, including guitars, a fret divides the neck into fixed segments, with each fret representing one semi-tone.

The multi-faceted John Ruskin of the Victorian age famously said, "There is no music in a rest, but there is the making of music in it." To bring us more into modern times, Miles Davis, 20th century jazz icon, once quipped, "In music, silence is more important than sound."

So, here we have the art in Michele's short song that extols the importance of quiet in a Life fully lived.

In terms of craft, I much appreciated how the word silence, in line 3, connects lines 1 & 2 to 4 & 5. The word, spoken softly, even conveys its meaning. Speaking of spoken, yes, I did recite alone in the privacy of my sunroom all the final candidates (there were several). In listening to this tanka, there was contained therein the sound of a short song. That was helped by the short / long / short / long / long that follows the Japanese form that began with waka until Shiki revised the name to tanka and inspired a revitalization of a tradition that goes back at least to the 8th century. Not all Western contemporary tanka poets follow the s/l/s/l/l syllable count, but used in a way as Michele does, that is not forced, in recital and displayed on the page, the tanka is lovely.

Also re: tanka craft I found in this tanka mastery of each line using natural phrasing with no enjambment which in other forms of poetry works well to jump the reading into a new line, but I feel works less well for tanka.

Line 5 for me brought the tanka to significant conclusion without also conveying "The End." I felt invited - even welcomed - to continue the poem with my own thoughts and feelings … that is, to add my own orchestration. I find myself wondering if there is enough "quiet" in my own life and if I would benefit from seeking more of it.

Good poems are good teachers. Dare I suggest that this is a master teacher of how to write lyrical tanka!

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Ailsa Brown
An Appraisal by Michael Buckingham Gray

       button grass
       hovers in the breeze
       as I listen
       to the quiet
       of this old, old land

             — Ailsa Brown

 

Four poems caught my eye reading Issue 35 of Eucalypt: 'magpie mob' by Gwen Bitti, 'new hiking boots' by Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti, 'day by day' by Wilda Morris, and 'button grass' by Ailsa Brown.

What was it about these poems that caught my eye?

Well, Gwen's poem showed the current economic situation that we find ourselves in post-COVID in Australia and other places around the world using metaphor.

       magpie mob
       squabbling over
       bread
       the high cost
       of living pressures

Carolyn's poem, on the other hand, stressed the importance of keeping things that have worked for us so well. In this case, old laces. Looking at this poem, I noticed that it was closer to the traditional tanka 5-7-5-7-7 syllable count than the others.

       new hiking boots
       threaded with the laces
       of my old pair-
       how hard to part with things
       that have served us so well

Wilda Morris's 'day after day' chose a very different subject matter-deer. And it appealed to me as a narrative poem. The first two lines stretch over a long time "day after day / at dusk…", and the last lines, a more recent time, "but this afternoon…", ending with a satisfying catharsis.

       day after day
       at dusk I see no deer
       but this afternoon
       two fawns
       spring through the trees

It was by re-reading these four poems again, however, that I decided I most admired Ailsa Brown's poem 'button grass'-

       button grass
       hovers in the breeze
       as I listen
       to the quiet
       of this old, old land

Why? Perhaps it was because of Ailsa's use of alliteration, "button", "breeze"; and repetition, "old, old"; and her choice to present her poem in but one moment, lending it a haiku-like quality. So, not only was Ailsa's poem strong line by line, but also overall.

I look forward to reading more of Ailsa's work in the future.

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Tim Dwyer
An Appraisal by Michele L. Harvey

       your ninetieth birthday
       resting on the bench
       by the massive yew tree
       remembering friends
       with the friend who remains

             — Tim Dwyer

It's always astonishing when a poet paints so full a picture in tanka's five short lines.
Tim Dwyer does so in a way which engages both the senses and the imagination, inviting the reader into his intimate scene. With a ninetieth birthday and his massive yew tree he sets time and place, lending a setting for both contemplation and shelter. A yew tree's dense green-black shade with its nearby bench makes for intimate conversation between the two old souls beneath it. As venerable cemetery trees, yews can live for thousands of years, symbolizing death, resurrection and everlasting life.

If the purpose of the poet is to express an impression of a feeling of place and emotional space, Tim Dwyer has done so admirably. His "massive yew tree" lends its deep shade and cool bench for two friends sharing memories of those gone before. Line five presents an exquisitely chosen pivot to the last two companions still above ground. It's a bittersweet reminder of how precious friendship is, especially one which is enduring.

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Marilyn Humbert
An Appraisal by Ailsa Brown

       with steady strokes
       his wood plane reveals
       a fiddleback grain
       unexpected like the smile
       of a passing stranger

             — Marilyn Humbert

 

As I read Eucalypt Issue 36, I am taken from the present day, where change is constant, to worlds of reflective contemplation within the poems of each writer.

All the human emotions are here—love, loss, tragedy, displacement, hope in evolving generations, joy in small things. My mind opens to memories evoked by writers through familiar sensory experiences - the deep note/of the Spanish adagio; the aroma of pineapple sage; pink fairy floss melts/in my mouth; a cold plunge; a new sand bar/slows the river's rush.

Contrasting domestic images create a mind shift-a letterbox receives leaves and blossoms; a bamboo colander in an ocean of plastic. Then more haunting images, where the poet searches for belonging or home-a lost shadow; a flight over/the Indian Ocean; small newsprint the only record of boat people lost. The following tanka, by Kate King, could be anywhere or everywhere:

       no common wharf
       for our baggage
       no safe place
       to unpack our tender
       unguarded hearts

             —Kate King

I feel the inner turmoil of people unsure of where they might settle and regain a sense of connection with others.

And as so often in tanka, nature is the link to emotions; phosphorescence, to awe; sunlight, to joy; sketching stones, to sensing life in inanimate objects; the gale-bent backs/of anchored trees, to time and aging. Each time I read through Eucalypt, particular poems gain more meaning and I find a new one stands out for me.

The Distinctive Scribbler I have chosen for the award is Marilyn Humbert:

       with steady strokes
       his wood plane reveals
       a fiddleback grain
       unexpected like the smile
       of a passing stranger

             —Marilyn Humbert

I am drawn to the unexpected beauty in nature and humanity uncovered by this tanka. Such a surprise for this woodworker, to find this special grain. A grain prized, I find as I research, for the making of musical instruments. I have not worked with wood, but I love the look of carved objects and the way different grains reflect the light once cut and a new surface exposed.

Working with the hands, to make something useful, is in itself a satisfying task. It gives the mind focus on something creative. I imagine the smile of the craftsperson in exposing the fiddleback grain as he works, his inner glow from receiving nature's gift. It is just the way I feel, or any of us respond when a stranger gives us an unexpected smile. It can flip any day into something more pleasant. Thank you, Marilyn, for your observations in crafting this tanka.

I would like to thank all the contributors in this edition of Eucalypt. Your poems impart a sense of deep connection across place and experience in our time.

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Debbie Strange
An Appraisal by Tim Dwyer

       bull kelp grows
       to maturity in one year…
       pencil markings
       of our heights still visible
       against the door frame

             — Debbie Strange

In this finely edited issue of Eucalypt, there are many excellent tanka. After careful reading, I narrowed my choice to three. Then I chose the tanka that most came back to my mind, and one in which I could not see anything to change. I chose the tanka by Debbie Strange:

       bull kelp grows
       to maturity in one year…
       pencil markings
       of our heights still visible
       against the door frame

The first line is strong, in terms of accent, rhythm and sound. As well as grounding with a vivid visual image, the kelp hints at sea scent and salty taste. The second line, with softer sounds, conveys a quiet authority, a trustworthy voice. The stated fact- growing to maturity in one year-resonates, and invites the reader to muse, enhanced by the skillful use of the ellipse. It is an unforced, light touch metaphor, that leads to a successful juxtaposition. The third line anchors the reader again with a clear image, visual and tactile with an appealing rhythm. The fourth line is an excellent example of Louise Gluck's approach- to invite not impose deep sentiment. It is a skillful and judicious use of the only personal pronoun or adjective in the tanka, and 'our' invites the reader in. The reader can participate to flesh out the image in the fifth line, perhaps picture a particular home for this doorframe, with pencil markings recalling many birthdays.

In the last line, I think the choice of the strong word 'against' rather than 'on' or 'upon' the doorframe, conveys both the tactile sense of pencil markings, but for this reader, it subtly conveys the conflict between tender reverie with the reality that those times have past.

There is an excellent balance in this tanka of grounding (bull kelp, pencil marking, door frame) with a reflectiveness. The juxtaposition of bull kelp and pencil markings is original and stirring. The five lines work as a piece, inviting authentic tenderness with gentle loss, a lifefullness that lingers after the reading of the tanka is done.