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John Martell
an appraisal by Annette Mineo

There is nothing easy about choosing just one poem to be honored above the rest, especially when choosing from a journal such as Eucalypt, filled with only the finest tanka from all over the world. Like others who have had the honor before me, I found it a most difficult task, compiling list after list until I was left with this one poem by John Martell that I could not resist:

all my lines
are tattered today
like poppy blossoms
blown against
this picket fence

           — John Martell

The first thing that struck me about this poem was its easy, fluid rhythm, the lines just rolling off the tongue, falling in sync with the next until you have this one perfectly succinct simile, not a word or line out of place or unnecessary. Simple, clear and concise. I was also struck by the poem’s dramatic imagery—the poppy blossoms lying tattered, having been blown against the picket fence, an image as beautiful as it is tragic. There is a subtle irony at work. While the images speak of destruction and ruin, the poem itself unfolds smoothly and naturally, revealing a higher truth within five little lines. The end result is one of creation rather than destruction.

But while these things make John’s poem good, one thing in particular for me makes it great and that’s its first line. Upon my first reading, I interpreted “all my lines” to mean “written lines”—the poet is struggling to create a poem and everything he pens ends up tattered and useless, which he likens to the poppy blossoms. But after reading and re-reading the poem, I quickly came to see how there was actually a plethora of possibilities we could attach to this word “lines”. By basic definition, “lines” are connectors or pathways. “Lines” could be words, penned or spoken, a brief note or an insincere phrase. A “line” could be one’s gig or expertise or direction. It could signify a row, a crease, an outline or even a boundary. Symbolically, “lines” could mean all his efforts in the world, or perhaps his connections, with people, with God or with himself. The inferences are endless.

While I can’t say for sure what John meant in this first line, I can say that the meaning has been made larger than even he might have intended by his choice of words. If he had in fact used “words” or “poems” in place of “lines”, you can see how we would have had a very different poem, one not even half so rich or meaningful. But by using the phrase “all my lines”, John has infused the poem with nuances that go far beyond even our own understanding of what’s at work here. Everything within the poem and outside of the poem seems to come back to the word “lines”. Look for instance at the last line— what is a “picket fence” but a boundary or a border made up of a neat little row of “lines”? How brilliant! Poems are made up of lines as are our connections to others and our paths through life. Lines play many significant roles in our lives, and it isn’t always a bad thing for them to become broken or tattered or disconnected. But these “lines” of John’s are far from “tattered”; they result in a single lucid, flowing line rich with meaning.

For me, John has written the perfect tanka—a poem with natural rhythm, striking imagery, subtle irony and incredible depth of meaning. It is not just a poem of images or just a poem about an event or even an idea—it is a multi-layered poem that reveals a powerful message, reminding us all that even through imperfections in this life, it is possible to draw “lines,” or connection and meaning, to the earth, to the world around us and to one another—and this to me is what makes John Martell’s poem more than worthy of this award.

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Maria Steyn
an appraisal by John Martell

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder is an old and now so trite maxim that we rarely think about it when we use it. It implies, of course, a subjective aesthetic judgment, despite various aesthetic schools which believe there must be a few objective criteria on which to base our judgment and discern good from bad art. In most ways, our judgment is always subjective and it is not a matter of great importance… unless, for example, you have 15-20 excellent poems in front of you and have to choose one. After five readings of Eucalypt, Issue 6, I found that even being as subjective as I could be, there were still too many excellent poems to choose from. So, in the end, I let my intuition sleep on it overnight and decided Maria Steyn’s poem, “deep autumn---” was the poem that had the strongest effect on me.

Briefly, it is beautifully written in the sense of being highly poetic, it has exquisite imagery, and a sense of mystery about it that can be suggested, but not directly stated. In particular instances she uses negatives in a powerful way as if the night is incomprehensible, a dark halo itself: her no, no, not, are wonderfully placed. And several of her lines have an assonance dear to my heart, e.g., “to stir the faint circle,” so pleasant and subtle. Finally, however, I was drawn into the circle of moonlight on the lawn. It is the kind of ethereal circle we observe from our window which draws us to the mystery of experience, of our standing in the world. We think there must be something quintessential here that has meaning, something that stirs us deeply, but ultimately faint, evasive.

In Maria’s poem she directs us to this experience but it is not itself said because we really cannot say it directly. We feel it, perceive it, words draw us toward it. Thus the poem takes us to the luminous edge, where a poem should take us and leaves us in awe of what the poem has conjured. When I read this poem for the final time, I recalled all the nights when I stood at my window gazing at the moonlight resonating in purple hues on the glowing expanse of snow below me—and I am touched by the unnamable stillness, the mystery of it all, seeing what I cannot say.

John Martell

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Kirsty Karkow
an appraisal by L.M.Tesoriero

At the risk of parroting the words of previous judges, choosing one winner from over a hundred is a daunting task. I believe the poems found in Eucalypt 6 are outstanding examples of their form and I would go so far as to say their authors are among the best writers of tanka in English today. To judge them is a real honour.

Kirsty Karkow’s tanka was not initially on my short list, but further reading convinced me that it deserved to win. This poem deals firmly yet gently with serious and potentially inflammatory themes, and in the best ‘less is more’ tradition, we are not told what to think, but are left to ponder the ambiguities raised.

put aside
elections and talk of god
a searchlight
scans the rounded sky
hunting for one straight line             © Kirsty Karkow

I have heard it said that one shouldn’t speak of politics and religion. This tanka has both in the second line. Not only that, but these ‘social unmentionables’ are presented in the form of a command. I’ve read very few tanka which commence by demanding our attention with an order –
        “put aside
        elections and talk of god”
Although Kirsty is telling us to ‘put aside’ these things, it automatically brings them to mind; our defences are raised, ready to react if necessary. My natural instinct when told what to do is rebel, perhaps even do the opposite, yet this tanka had me intrigued. Who is speaking? The author? And why say this? Reading further I discovered much more than anticipated.

Speaking of god and elections leads not only to circular arguments, but in the extreme, to war and death. To be able to ‘put aside’ these topics for a while may help create a safer world. Sure, continue the search but don’t expect to find ‘one straight line’ in a ‘rounded sky’.

Nature is made up of curves. Straight lines (and hope) belong to humans. I see Kirsty’s poem as being about humanity searching, looking upwards for proof and answers that possibly will never be found; for one simple answer to complex questions, such as those of politics and religion. It is human nature to hope that there is something looking after us: an honest politician, a party with an agenda for the betterment of all, an all-seeing, all-loving god. The searchlight scans and people hunt, yet they discover nothing. But the tanka does not suggest that we should give up our search.

Kirsty has crafted this tanka very skillfully. The syllable count creates a natural rhythm, each line leading to the next. There’s a major break after ‘god’; but there’s also a slight pause after ‘sky’. This feels natural, as if Kirsty is giving us time to take in the enormity of what she’s just said.

There are many other poems I feel deserve acknowledgement but I will limit myself to two from my short list. Personally, I love multi-layered tanka and those which give us pause for thought. This may give some insight into why I chose the poems I have.

The first is Mariko Kitakubo’s beautifully crafted tanka. I love her use of balance; balance of freedom and ‘isolation’, ending with ‘this Vernal Equinox Day’, the one day of the year where night and day are equal in length. Her ‘sky so blue’ tells me she’s happy (maybe with an important decision made?) and after the vernal equinox, as the days get longer, hopefully her happiness will also continue to grow.

The final poem I’d like to comment on is John Martell’s hard hitting stubborn cancer patient. I imagine the patient to be dying of lung cancer, with all the indignities it involves. Nevertheless he shuts himself indoors, smoking continually, ‘treating his tumours with contempt’ – his way of saying ‘do your worst’ to life and fate. This unexpected image provides a clever ending to an often cliched topic.

I feel that sharing something we’ve created, like tanka, demands a huge amount of trust, especially when we send our little creations, like children, out into the world. Thank you all for trusting us with your tanka. They were a joy to read!



L.M.Tesoriero

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Max Ryan
an appraisal by Maria Steyn

out of the ocean
a full moon rising,
I turn away
from its silver path,
shield my unlit heart
                  Max Ryan

Max Ryan’s tanka caught my attention with its gentle, understated exploration of human emotion. Most readers will have viewed a full moon rising over the ocean, a lake or river and will remember how perfect and breathtaking a scene it is. The narrator in this tanka is no exception, he is acutely aware of the beauty surrounding him and even the moon’s iridescent reflection across the ocean does not escape him. The splendour of the scene is poetically described in the first two lines where assonance slows the reader down and adds a melodious tone. We find ourselves dwelling on memories of similar scenes and some readers might even consider how the moon inspires curiosity and wonder, carries an air of mystery and can be seen as symbolic of love or unattainable beauty and wholeness. A strategically placed comma invites us to savour the view and linger awhile.

After this introduction the next two lines take the reader by surprise. Instead of being immersed in the beauty and atmosphere of the scene the narrator turns from the rising moon and its ‘silver path’. Any sailor would attest to the fact that the ocean as a body of water is a fickle force to be reckoned with, and in the same manner life can be viewed as a mystery carried along by forces beyond our control. Who would then refuse to experience the exhilaration offered by a few minutes of treading along an illuminated path of perfection? Why would anybody want to turn from an enticing ‘silver path’ with all its fairytale connotations? Once again punctuation creates a pause and leaves us with many questions to ponder.

In the final line the reason for the narrator’s response is revealed with the alluring image, ‘shield my unlit heart’. The heart, traditionally the seat of emotion, is compared to a candle or lamp that has not been lit and the quiet sadness of this image touches the reader. Everything is luminous and filled with beauty: the moon, the silver reflection across the water, but not the narrator’s heart.

There are various reasons why a person’s heart could be dark, the most obvious being the experience of sorrow, pain, loss or grief. Light and beauty can threaten sorrow because it will invariably accentuate the painful emotion the person might be trying to subdue. A person might also fear to ‘contaminate’ beauty with the darkness they are experiencing, or they may feel like turning away from what can be perceived as ‘false advertising: life is imperfect, yet the magnificence of this scene entices us to believe otherwise.

It is the restraint, graceful imagery and simplicity in which complex emotions are explored that enchanted me in this elegantly written tanka.


I would briefly like to highlight two other tanka, the first being John Martell’s ‘across the pond’:

across the pond
sunset explodes in bronze
and green fir spires –
we stand hands together
free from the weight of words
                  John Martell

Once again a nature scene stops two people in their tracks to admire the glory of a setting sun. The spiritual overtones inherent in the use of ‘spires’ pull the poem towards a deeper level and the final two lines leave the reader in a reverent state of silence. Are the hands held together in prayer, or are the two people holding hands? This double meaning enhances the effect of the poem and the profound image in line five offers the reader a brief glimpse into the release experienced when beauty and closeness set us free from the burden of words, entrusting us to a sacred realm of wordless understanding.


Lastly, a few words on Linda Galloway’s ‘the neat line’:

the neat line
of Puritan grave markers
in a fiery sun
the noise
of their forbidden dreams
                  Linda Galloway

This tanka brought a smile of recognition. We notice the ‘neat line’ and ‘grave markers’ instead of elaborate gravestones – no excess, not even in death. How spectacularly the fiery sun releases all those repressed desires and dreams!

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Michael McClintock
an appraisal by Kirsty Kirkow

            It is an enchanted moment when a poem leaps off the page springing into the reader's heart and mind to be remembered and repeated. This lightning link has much to do, I feel, with background, culture, interests, sensitivities and possibly recent reading material.

I had just finished enthusiastically re-reading Kidnapped and was in the midst of a novel about expatriate Scots in colonial America, the day that Eucalypt arrived in the mail. I opened the silken pages. Wham! There was McClintock's poem bellowing at me for attention. It is a strong, blatant verse; a surfeit for the senses.

after five days
bagpipes and haggis aplenty
I'm going to flee
old Scotland, the same as
my bandit fathers before me
                  Michael McClintock

            I have a Scottish background (Kirsty being a Gaelic name) and have all my life heard fabled stories about the haggis, a wee beastie that runs around a mountain, always in the same direction, with the uphill legs shorter than the downhill ones. The taste of it does not bear discussion. Believe me, a little goes a long way. Much the same can be said for bagpipes, an exciting wild wailing meant to scare the enemy but, again, a little goes a long way. McClintock may have visited the land of his forefathers hoping to connect and resonate with it, but five days were enough! His clan probably left Scotland for religious reasons but he found the culinary and musical persecution sufficient to make a man flee. Notice that the word bandit comes from the Italian bandito, from bandire, to banish. Interesting choice, no? They all felt banished.

            It appears that the poet longed to connect with his history; and he expresses an underlying disappointment that he was not captivated by it. Is there a conscious decision to cover this disappointment with wry humour, using some vocabulary resonant of the Old Scotland he had hoped to be part of?

            There is musical rhythm despite a couple of pretty long lines for tanka. There is a narrative with a beginning and conclusion. There is a mid-poem pivot and a turn of image and subject in L5 that creates a strong final line; the realisation that a love affair with Scotland was not to be. For me, this is the epitome of a modern English tanka, redolent with classic Japanese undertones and a lot to admire.



In direct contrast to McClintock's rough and ready tanka is this one, by Jan Dean. A poem of meditative serenity that draws the reader irrevocably into its charmed circle. The quiet language shows how discursive thoughts can subside into the deep peace of a quiet mind. A Zen garden. The visitor is first attracted to the movement of the fish before realising the meaning and affect of sand and stones. This is a very powerful tanka, beautifully executed.

There is also the captivating carp drawn by Pim Sarti.

on my first visit
I missed the raked garden –
today the stones
shift my mind further
than the carps' fluidity
                  Jan Dean

I cannot leave you without mentioning a poem by John Martell which startles the senses with almost violent imagery, the shock of which stuns its viewers into silence...and an understanding of the powerlessness of words in the face of natural events. Do not miss the implications of that one small word – spires. And, are they holding hands, or praying?

across the pond
sunset explodes in bronze
and green fir spires
we stand hands together
free from the weight of words
                  John Martell

It is impossible, as you can see, to choose one poem from such a fine collection as is consistently presented to us in Eucalypt by its editor, Beverley George.

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Carole MacRury
an appraisal by Max Ryan

When judging poetry of any kind it's always hard to decree one poem as better than all others.

Tessa Wooldridge’s seamless metaphor of a musical stave to depict the far west NSW network of fences and rail track touched on something powerful and unique to this country and I can imagine anyone who has ever lived in those regions or travelled the train-route from Parkes to Broken Hill would find deep resonances in this poem:

from Ivanhoe
to the Menindee lakes
fence, train track, fence
a stave in musical harmony
singing across the land
                  Tessa Wooldridge

I loved the assonances of Barbara Fisher’s image of a snowbound landscape where she contrasts ‘the rough red road’ that is now, in the grip of winter, ‘silent and white’:

how strange
to see tree ferns
bent with snow
and the rough red road
silent and white
                  Barbara Fisher

Joyce Christie’s poem about a quayside farewell with its sorrowful mood of dispersement stayed with me for a long time:

wind blown
ribbons blow away . . .
a sea of faces
forever waving
on the quay
                  Joyce Christie

How effective the use here of ‘forever’.
Finally, though, the death-side scenario of Carole MacRury’s tanka, with its desperate cadences of a life being held onto beyond reasonable hope, stood out:

a glass vase filled
with out-of-season tulips
oh, how we tried
to force-feed spring
into her winter decline
                  Carole MacRury

One of the ways a poem can fall down is the presence of 'leaking', where an unnecessary word obtrudes or where the reader may be diverted by an extraneous detail. At first I wondered about it being a ‘glass’ vase but then realised that this detail too added to the sense of transparency in the poem where the impossible feat of trying to maintain a human life beyond its natural limits is blatantly exposed. The ‘out-of-season tulips’ (suggesting the artificiality of this highly cultivated variety of flower, aggressively colourful and bold in appearance) are seen as filling the vase, one imagines, to its very limit. The poem’s final two lines bring the chill realisation of the force that has been exerted in this struggle with the disturbing image of spring being ‘force-fed’ into the winter of the woman’s dying hours.

Perhaps the author could have added an even more urgent tone to poem by putting the active verb ‘tried’ into the present tense but the atmosphere of a fast-fading life is depicted so vividly here, we are left finally with the subsuming sense of hopelessness we all must feel in the face of death’s natural, inevitable unfolding.

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Beatrice Yell
an appraisal by Michael McClintock

sky scraper cranes
above a building site
on the footpath
a heap of crisped, fallen leaves
beside a birch twig broom
                  Beatrice Yell

        Occasionally, a tanka poet will step out of the self-reflecting mode and craft a poem that invites the reader to engage in a different level of contemplation, placing emphasis on idea rather than emotion.

        The huge themes and ideas that Beatrice Yell has compacted into the matter-of-fact language and spare lines of her poem bring to mind those passages in Ecclesiastes that speak of a time for every purpose and for every work, and how under the sun all things are full of labor.

        Embedded in the poem’s simple imagery is a powerful sense of human and natural history, the flux and flow of things, intertwining human activity with natural processes. We see in the construction crane about to swing into action, and in the rustic broom about to tend to its sweeping, the alpha and omega of beginnings and endings, a contemplation of man and his works within the great harmonies and cycles of nature: constructing and deconstructing, rising and falling, filling and emptying.

        The mind that made the construction crane and harnessed the laws of physics also fashioned the lowly birch twig broom. One is a tool for building, the other a tool for sweeping away. In them, we see a large part of man’s activity on earth, generation-to-generation, all played out within earth’s own unceasing but mute natural cycles of growth, increase, and decay. In the mind’s eye, the scene evolves before us: the building rises beam-by-beam, piece-by-piece. In spring, as the building goes up, the bare trees along the footpath will leaf-out and once again a green summer will be provided its light and shade.

        I think the poem is true to the complex realities of history and of contemporary life. It appears to be grounded in a pragmatic philosophy that sees man and nature bound up together in a relationship that is essentially complimentary rather than inherently or necessarily confrontational. There is no symbolic evil in the construction cranes; no romantic or sentimental fantasy about nature. It is a quiet poem of illumination, reflecting on the Big Picture, and is delivered sans rhetoric in the simple language of sincerity. I am persuaded that Ms. Yell must be a natural philosopher of the first order, and may be as wise as Solomon.

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