a stench that buckles the knees— and so I bow before the cave of the bear on the mountain of tall pines
Michael McClintock
Let me say this right now: many of today's tanka poets are as swift and precise with their language as those of ancient Japan. Some would disagree, claiming that most tanka written these days lack a clear and decisive aesthetic beauty. This is certainly their right. But, I wonder, if those practitioners of old were here in this era, would they devote themselves so fully to bamboo groves and cherry blossoms, or might they be more inclined to comment upon their long waits in the unemployment lines? Masters that they were, they would probably manage to pay homage to both, and, in the process, take many, many risks.
But this inheritance belongs to us, the contradictions of our times having given birth to a whole new crop of masters: men and women from all over the world who have perfected this incredible balancing act. And the masterpieces? Well, they are simply the dirt-honest portrayals of their very lives.
my beer gone flat but out of duty I finish it living all these middle aged years
Tom Clausen
It would be easy for me to sit here and list a half dozen or so tanka poets whose poems consistently impress and inspire me on multiple levels. This being the case, it seems it would only make sense for me to fully embed myself in their words most every day, after I've clocked out of work and tucked my beautiful daughter to sleep. But, I don't. Truth be told, I find that there is a certain danger in reading too much tanka, in being too locked into the rhythms and meters one encounters in tanka. Those rhythms and meters, while a vital component of the genre, have a tendency to make me seek only that which can seemingly be confined to those cadences, and, consequently, produce poems that are predictable and trite. And so, in an effort to hurl myself away from that corner, toward the freshest possible air, I read a variety of other compelling authors: Jim Harrison, Linda Pastan— even Charles Bukowski. I also spend a great deal of time composing other forms and genres, such as ghazals and short fiction. Of course, before too many weeks have passed, unable to withstand the urge to indulge myself in its unparalleled starkness, I return to tanka.
even though there are six of us in this crummy cell it is only I the moonlight touches
Brendan Slater 92
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