selected and appraised by winners of the Awards in the previous issue.
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Several species of eucalypts (gums) exhibit distinctive squiggles that
result from moth larvae eating the live wood and leaving a scar that
is revealed when the tree sheds its bark. This image of a gum
with its insect-generated calligraphy, inspired the naming of the award.
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AWARD RECIPIENTS
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Ross Clark
an appraisal by Dorothy McLaughlin
how old is the airThis tanka is about things invisible and intangible, air, memories, dreams. The lake and air bubbles on the surface are present, a concrete start for the poem, but even they don't have shape and get their color from other matter. As water and air are essential to life, so memories of what was and dreams of what might be are necessities for our souls.
that bubbles to the surface
of the lake? how old
are my memories my dreams?
& who breathed them before me?
Ross Clark
Recently I read something, source forgotten, recalled by the tanka, about how the air we breathe may have been inhaled earlier by a genius. Interesting idea, I thought, happy to think of being connected to the past and future by air, in touch with those I love and strangers, the famous, the intellectuals, and all the rest.
The pivot was a repetition of the first words, "how old,"at the beginning of the first line and at the end of the third. He poses the question. His readers' answers, if they have any, will vary.
Then, the last lines held my attention. Memories shared? Well, of course. Even though we don't see events the same, we do share. However, my dreams are unique, aren't they? Not quite, according to Ross Clark. I pictured him standing alone at a lake, a slight haze blurring the surrounding green vegetation, before sunrise or just after sunset's glow has gone, aware of his place as part of a boundless community rather than of himself as individual.
Primarily, it was the tanka's message, its subject and substance, that caught me. After many readings, I was intrigued to notice the traditional 5/7/5/7/7 pattern, without thinking about the punctuation often considered part of the syllable count. Moreover, I liked the flow of the poem, one line to the next without hesitation. Teachers from my school days instructed us not to stop at the end of a line when reading or reciting poetry, rhyme or not, unless punctuation and sense called for a pause. The absence of a comma between "my memories" and "my dreams" impelled me on like thoughts crowding the mind or bubbles rising to the surface. Unlike those thin-shelled air bubbles, the poem stayed to keep me company, like the memory of a quiet lake.
Michael Thorley
an appraisal by Amelia Fielden
Fittingly, there appear in this inaugural issue of Eucalypt, five eucalypt, (or gum, as it is commonly called in Australia), tanka.
One of them, a lovely piece by Janice M. Bostok, introduces the journal with these appealing lines:
eucalypt leavesLater, amongst the pages of delightful tanka, I found this gem by Michael Thorley:
in stillness spin round
thin then broad –
eyes not yet open the pup
nuzzles into my hand
our front yard gumMy initial thought was ‘how Australian’, my second, ‘how fresh and unclichéd’. This is so down to earth in its sentiments, and yet it has that lightness of touch and expression which characterises skilful tanka.
grown from a sapling
to a giant –
all those black cockatoos
fair exchange for a lawn
The Australianness is not simply the setting with our unique black cockatoos. It is in the poet’s attitude of ‘fair exchange’: the barren ground which results from the gum tree using all available moisture to sustain its growth, is offset by his delight that this giant now attracts ‘all those black cockatoos’.
Australian, yes – but universally, too, this tanka can be read as affirming the positive acceptance of nature’s gifts over an artificial construct, a lawn. We can do without the extravagance of lawns, especially in these drought years in Australia; yet we do need wild birds, ‘the creatures of the air’, in our urban lives. For most of us, birds symbolise freedom, and grace in freedom. There is a balance in this tanka, birds for a lawn, and also the sense of life’s inevitable movement and change: sapling into giant tree, sown grass into rough ground, the coming and going of black cockatoos.
Thorley’s tanka is not only layered with interest and meaning, it is also technically sound, following a traditional short / long / short / long / long rhythm for a total of twenty-five syllables. The final two lines, of six syllables each, are beautifully balanced, and roll off the tongue.
Congratulations to the poet.
Kirsty Karkow
an appraisal by Michael Thorley
a snapshotHow fortunate we are that this particular “Eucalypt” flowers twice a year! How daunting, though, the task of choosing just one of the profusion of blossom-sprays for appreciation when so many draw one’s eye (and heart). How sad to have to bypass the wit, drama, sadness of so many to select just one. Anyway …
of me and the girl -
between us
handsome as ever
is my only son
Kirsty Karkow
I chose, after much deliberation, the tanka above. It only made its full impact on me on the second reading through the collection. I like it because of its tight construction, careful crafting, and unique subject – motherly love and possessiveness. It is also (I hesitate to use the term) multi-layered.
The basic situation presented to us is of a mother looking at a snapshot of, I guess, herself and “the girl”, with her son positioned between them. The attitude of the mother toward the two people is markedly different. The girl is just “the girl”, without name or status. The phrase places her at a – slightly wary, cold or hostile – distance. The son, on the other hand, is admired as “handsome as ever” and then revealed, in the last line, to be “her only son,” thus emphasizing his special value. The weight of her attention is on her son.
For me, this tanka centres on the close relationship that a mother can have with her son, and the wariness and guardedness that can accompany it, especially when a lover or potential partner approaches with designs. The phrase “between us,” aptly placed in the middle of the tanka, is the heart of it. Its first meaning is the simple one of physical location in the snapshot. I can see (or imagine) three other meanings of “between.” First, the son is someone that may be claimed by both mother and “the girl,” and hence the object of a struggle “between” them. Second, there is the possibility that the mother’s relationship with the girl will be mediated by the girl’s relationship with the son – “between” as “coming between” or “standing between.” Third, if we take the tanka slightly differently, and see the mother’s realization of the normality of what may occur between the son and the girl, but with the understanding that there will be, naturally, some pain for her, the “between” suggests “moving between.” This gives the tanka a feeling of sadness, rather than of possessiveness. These various meanings, if I have not gone too far astray, give the tanka a depth that unfolds only on closer reading.
The tanka is concise, with a neat 3-5-3-5-5 syllable rhythm. Each line adds something significant to the picture, culminating in the final line, which strongly underlies the son’s value to the mother, and reinforces the tension between herself and “the girl.” The tanka suggests that a real story is yet to unfold, a suggestiveness that adds to its strong impression.
A colleague of mine once commented that life is a series of separations, beginning with birth - when the child separates from the mother’s body. This tanka captures skillfully the tension inherent in another of them.
Editor's Note
Like Ross Clark, Michael Thorley found choosing one poem only, very challenging. Here are Michael’s comments on another of his favourite poems.
Moira Richards
my breastThis is a tanka with punch. It was one that gripped me immediately when I read through the collection the first time. As I see it, the person speaking has lost a breast to cancer. The dreadful, existential question that goes with such situations is: is this the end of it, or will the disease strike again, with similar or worse results? The breast is seen as an offering to an unseen killer, in the hope that this single, massive sacrifice will be all that is required. The mention of the Minotaur sent me to my references to refresh my memory of Greek mythology. This brief research provided evidence for the aptness of the metaphor. The reference to the Minotaur is deeper than might appear on a quick reading.
on the minotaur’s
altar …
will it be enough
to sate his hunger?
Moira Richards
The Minotaur, in mythology, was a monster with the head of a bull and the body of a man. He existed in the fabled labyrinth and, before being slain by Theseus, demanded human sacrifices from the citizens of Crete. The cancer is thus represented as a monstrous creature (very true), partly human, living in a treacherous labyrinth (as the body can be understood), and devouring the lives of a certain number of young people each year. The mention of the altar also brings in that helplessness and desperate supplication we can feel when confronted by life-threatening and unpredictable forces.
The tanka is in a concise and exact 2-5-2-5-5 syllable form, and reads naturally. The point is made directly and concisely. The use of the minotaur as a poetic embodiment of the cancer is apt and effective. Although it is not part of this tanka, we can extend the metaphor, and note, with a cheer, that the Minotaur was, eventually, slain.
Bob Lucky
an appraisal by Ross Clark
The anguish of the editor or the judge is akin to that of a child having to choose just one confection from a cornucopia; with these tanka, however, I could take a “suck it and see” approach repeatedly, without in any way diminishing the particular piece (in fact, they tasted better each time). Nevertheless, I eventually ended up with three mighty tanka, but then found myself choosing the one that had shone out on my very first reading of the issue: Bob Lucky’s “I’m trying to see”.
I would like to begin, however, by noting the pieces by Linda Jeannette Ward and Cynthia Rowe. Ward’s “peeling” tells a story of domestic continuity in a wry and warm fashion ~ her grandmother manages to retain a recipe secret even after her death. Rowe’s “rain has pounded” is a more public narrative of family ~ rain hides, and fire cannot find, the missing one. Both these tanka exhibit formal looseness, in that most lines are of similar length, the endings decided by the narratives. Each resonated in its own way.
Lucky’s tanka is also formally loose, just 21 syllables arranged fragmentarily (almost in four lines really), but charmingly just right.
I’m trying to seehe says, and we know the staying is not just of this moment, but most likely of this relationship. He is at a point of decision, and naturally either course of action produces regrets. If he stays there are plenty of negatives with the positives; if he goes, there are equally attractive positives accompanying the negatives of the broken relationship. Many of us can relate to this dilemma, too many of us.
the point of staying –
But "if I sit/ just so" Lucky continues, a little something happens that illuminates the moment, as it has many times in the past. Ironically, the source of illumination is that symbol of continuing inconstancy, Lady Luna. She is always there, revealing and hiding her face, month after month 13 unlucky times a year. Always waxing, always waning, the story of every relationship.
if I sitI rejoice in the audacity of that conjunction, as the fickle moon floats in the brief cup of tea, giving comfort and direction to Lucky as he contemplates what to do in the next moment and for the rest of his life.
just so the moon
floats in my tea
I’m trying to seeMay the moon always be with you, Bob, and with all of us.
the point of staying –
if I sit
just so the moon
floats in my tea.
Melissa Dixon
Appraisal by Kirsty Karkow
Beverley George has selected such excellent poetry for this collection that it is almost impossible to choose a favorite. There were roughly ten that I kept going back to, wondering which one would, or even could, separate itself from its elite companions. Gradually, I became aware that one poem followed me around. The words would repeat as I went through my daily routines and kept revealing new and deeper layers of meaning. Here it is:
tracking
black against the sky
an eagle's shadow
stay still . . . I whisper
to his small prey below
Melissa Dixon
From the first to the last, see how each word is essential and important creating multiple meanings? The first line is ambiguous. From there on, many interpretations evolve. And questions. We know the poet's emotional viewpoint but where is she actually standing?
It feels like a prayer from some-one who knows that any movement will reveal a secret or a hiding place. Sharp eyes from above (maybe even God's?), are watching! Be careful. Listen to the warning. Behave. Or else things are going to get rough.
There are many options but the feeling of alarm is central as poet and reader feel anxiety and sympathy for a mouse, a rabbit or even a fish. These feelings of identity with and concern for the underdog can be translated to other scenes. The bully in a schoolyard comes to mind, leading to any situation where an oppressor is about to take advantage of the small and meek. I think of the strong countries or tribes that have overwhelmed weaker nations. Let's not forget the various tracking devices used in modern warfare, and methods of extracting information. The caution is well advised.
Is life cruel? Yes. “Nature, red in tooth and claw” ( Alfred, Lord Tennyson) is how the world functions but, as sensitive humans we mourn any death and fear for any creature that is being stalked. We dread the thought of unwarranted punishment.
These are a few of the layers that pervade this simple verse making it quite special, in my view.
There others that shine with elegant yet deep simplicity. For instance:
before he leapsHere is a farmer who has lost his farm. He is desperate. A quarter of the farms have failed, or are struggling to remain viable. He can't sleep or see a way out other than suicide. Is it possible that even this can go wrong?
does he test the rope
around his neck
this one-in-four farmer
who can't sleep anymore?
Kathy Kituai
And, also:
near-drowning--The sharpness of life; the quiet of death. I grew up with the story of my Great-aunt Jessica's drowning and revival. She fell off an ocean liner. Apparently the breathing of cool sea water was pleasant compared to the pain of resuscitation.
I still remember
the silence
and then the sting
of salt water
Margaret Chula
There are many more poems most worthy of being chosen. I wish I could talk about them all.
Denis Garrison
an appraisal by Bob Lucky
I have to say those tanka by that Lucky fellow…. No, in all seriousness, this was the most pleasant and the most unenviable task I’ve had in some time. Beverley George, having done such an excellent job in compiling this issue, left me with too many choices. Not only were the tanka of a high quality, they were also of an amazing scope, ranging from the existential angst of contemplating one’s smallness in a potato field to the immediacy of drought, from death and disease to the gratitude for a dry loaf of bread and the excuse not to take a walk.
I read and reread. At one point, I thought it might be instructive to identify a stinker, one I really didn’t like, but failed to find one. Eventually about half a dozen “winners” lodged in my brain before two broke free and floated to the surface. I liked the way both Barbara Fisher’s “lying in bed” and Denis Garrison’s “in the long night” trip up the reader’s expectations of where they are going, but the poignancy and rhythm of Garrison’s piece finally won me over.
Garrison’s opening two lines are a risky ploy: two prepositional phrases crowned with clichés.
in the long nightThe repetition of grammatical structures is often effective in creating a rhythmic momentum, which I believe is the case here, and I responded positively to that. (He also uses repetition of grammatical structure in lines 3 and 4 to similar effect.) It also sets an interesting tone, as if we are about to hear a storyteller embark on an epic. However, the clichés confounded me. I was sure I was being set up, but not sure if it was for a joke or for a dose of maudlin spirituality. It was neither. Instead, Garrison strips the clichés of their moorings by taking away any chance of their resolution by the narrator. The night will be long and the grief dark for he is
in the darkness of grief
blind to hopejust those things we think would save the day, so to speak. Had they indeed been a source of solace to the narrator, as they can be to some people some times, the entire tanka would have gone down the drain of sentimentality.
and deaf to prayers
So, not deluded by hope or seduced by faith, Garrison focuses on the one thing that is real, the one thing he can hold on to: a hand. We don’t know whose hand, only that it is a hand that matters a great deal. And in the circumstances of this tanka, in the wording of the last line, it is just possible that the narrator is holding on tightly for his own sake. After all, there is a wonderful ambiguity here. Assuming it is a death-bed scene, it isn’t clear if the narrator is in the bed or beside it.
in the long nightIn five lines, Garrison has written an epic of sorts by capturing the unvarnished nature of mortality and our desire, despite all odds, to hold on to life, our own and that of those we love.
in the darkness of grief
blind to hope
and deaf to prayers
I hold tightly to your hand
James Rohrer
an appraisal by Melissa Dixon
I am honored to have the opportunity to choose a favorite poem from the elegant pages of Eucalypt, but, as with others before me, I found it difficult indeed to isolate just one from such a wealth of offerings!
As I studied the fine contributions in the last issue, over time I returned again and again to the compelling immediacy of James Rohrer’s poem:
never pity
the solitary bird –
what poetry
the owl must hear
in the wind, in the trees
The writer calls our close attention to a night owl silhouetted against the sky. In the first lines: “never pity / the solitary bird”, he warns. He notes with empathy the gifts of poetry an owl receives within its intimate nocturnal surroundings. Of course, the first impression for the reader-poet is a close connection with this owl! As poets, we are essentially eremitical: Consciously or unconsciously we see ourselves as a “solitary bird” — up late at night we craft and polish our own small songs. In the final three lines, through the use of graceful phrasing, Rohrer creates the eerie impression of an owl silently flitting from branch to branch – at home in the forest! Indeed — “never pity” us!
From a technical position, I searched for flaws in this poem, but must confess failure in this respect. There are no unnecessary words or syllables; every phrase nestles perfectly into place. The central pivot phrase, “what poetry” sits comfortably between the first two lines and the last two. In my opinion, this is a perfect little poem.
Annette Mineo
an appraisal by Denis Garrison
The cost of having your tanka selected for one of Eucalypt’s Distinctive Scribblings awards is having to try to choose one poem from the next issue—just one—as its outstanding tanka. I have found that a high cost, indeed, for Eucalypt 4 is full of outstanding poems. My first “short list” was half the issue! However, becoming increasingly cruel in my appraisals, I found some little nit to pick with many of the candidates. I finally came down to a true short list, which follows:
the peonies
hard pink fists
ready to open
and you pressed against me
this early morning hour
—Annette Mineo
this beach glass
scoured a cloudy blue
so like your eyes
fading and emptying
to a relentless tide
—Carole MacRury
past midnight
a robin’s alarm call
I turn
into the sliver of moonlight
stretched across the bed
—Maria Steyn
Annette Mineo’s “the peonies” is my selection. I cannot find a single nit to pick with either Carole’s or Maria’s tankas; they are truly wonderful. But . . . Annette’s has a power and beauty that puts it at the top of my list.
the peonies
hard pink fists
ready to open
and you pressed against me
this early morning hour
This tanka is an extraordinary exemplar of that “certain haziness” that characterizes tanka, despite its vivid imagery. The pellucid diction leads the reader to expect a definite image and that of the closed peonies is certainly vivid and accessible. Still, what is happening here? Ah, that is the magic of tanka: the reader must complete the poem. The deceptively plain statement conceals a myriad of possibilities; there is plenty of dreaming room for the readers’ individual experiences and contexts to fill with detail.
I have no idea if Annette had one specific scenario in mind for this tanka, nor what it might be if she did. As just one reader, my initial reading was in the context of an erotic encounter. In that context, the alternating texture of the lines, the incipient explosiveness of flowering, the visual imagery, the closeness, the time of day, all build towards a climax that is just beyond this moment. The tanka is gorgeous, intimate, powerful.
Of course, that is just one reading. Pondering upon the poem, I found myself looking at a very different scenario: a mother holding her new-born to her breast in the gentle dark before dawn. A classic mother-and-child image, even a Madonna and Child, is possible here. The power of the poem is undiminished, but shifts from eroticism to even greater intimacy, even purer love. Whose heart is so cold that this image does not warm it?
It also occurred to me that I am reading this tanka with a feminine persona assumed and that doing so is not at all necessitated by the poem itself. Even more variations open up.
I daresay some present readers of this appraisal are right now certain that I am a dunce or blind because they have readings completely different to any I have suggested. That is the magic of tanka in action! Annette Mineo has given us a tanka in which not one letter may be changed; it is fully realized and has amazing depth.
This is a tanka that I shall long remember and enjoy.