This year's Trailblazer Contest received 314 haiku and 99 tanka submissions. People really gave it their all, and we saw interesting experiments as well as thought-provoking ways to expand more traditional poems in these genres! We hope everyone enjoys the challenge and inspiration these poems bring as much as we do.
Soon we will be releasing the poets’ interviews—stay tuned!
Hemapriya Chellappan, Kat Lehmann, Shloka Shankar, Richa Sharma, and Robin Smith
2023 Trailblazers Panel
2023 WINNERS
(alphabetically)
Haiku:
Danny Blackwell
Alfred Booth
Anette Chaney
Antoinette Cheung
jim kacian
John Pappas
Gregory Piko
Tim Roberts
Rowan Beckett
Joshua St. Claire
Julie Schwerin
Margaret Walker
Michael Dylan Welch
Alfred Booth
Anette Chaney
Antoinette Cheung
jim kacian
John Pappas
Gregory Piko
Tim Roberts
Rowan Beckett
Joshua St. Claire
Julie Schwerin
Margaret Walker
Michael Dylan Welch
Tanka:
Rowan Beckett
Rowan Beckett
Debbie Strange
Rowan Beckett
Debbie Strange
Haiku:
in green pastures a lying cow says “無” still no rain
Danny Blackwell
According to a folk story, a herd of cows lying in a field is a predictor of rain. In this one-line haiku, the lying (resting) cow is also a lying (falsehood-telling) cow, as the day continues without rain. The Japanese kanji 無 (mu) translates to “nothing” or “absence.” The cow is saying “mu” (a homonym for moo), but this common cow vocalization is not sharing a forecast for desired weather.
The use of a kanji is an uncommon technique, but what really elevates this poem is the depth and variety of readings that are possible.
Is the cow saying nothing, or is the cow saying the word “nothing?” In Hinduism, cows are a symbol of life force. If the cow is saying nothing, is the cow alive? There is a hint of existentialism and waiting for what is to come. If the cow is suffering in its circumstance, why would it ask for nothing, except that “mu/moo” is the only thing a cow can say? What can we as humans say in our circumstance as we wait for rain? Is the cow’s state justified, or is there a cow at all? We are made to wait for an anticipated result that doesn’t happen.
The spacing before “still no rain” creates a pause in thought while we look to the sky for clouds. This gap prompts a cyclical read of the poem to create the phrase “still no rain in green pastures.”
Do the “green pastures” represent actual food or spiritual food? The rain could symbolize a physical or spiritual salvation, a desire for life, rebirth, or even death. In this reading, 無 might suggest non-existence.
It is possible that the cow is not co-located with the protagonist and is lying elsewhere in the green pastures while the protagonist remains in a rainless region. In this reading, the poem could speak to climate change. Or the poem might describe a feeling of lack as one waits for the fulfillment of desires that are beyond one’s control while others are sated. Still no rain.
Although the poem is grounded in regions that share this folk story about weather prediction, the images and desire for sufficient rain are universal and connect intuitively across cultures. This haiku is a trailblazer for its layered use of language, bold presentation, and subtle, deep meanings that reward continued contemplation.
swallowing
pills from big to small
shrapnel
Alfred Booth
This poem may appear straightforward at first glance, but the contrast it creates is rich in layers of meaning. The placement of “swallowing” in the opening line establishes the tone for the poem’s central feeling and grabs the reader’s attention right away. Despite the fact that some of our panelists regularly take pills for various conditions, they claim that the discomfort associated with swallowing is still unmatched, and this poem does a fantastic job of capturing that emotion. The clever placement of “pills” in the second line allows for an alternate reading of “swallowing shrapnel,” a potent metaphor for an illness or disease that unexpectedly hits you like a bullet. The side effects of the medications, as one panelist observed, bring their own shrapnel, much as one reaction triggers a chain reaction that leads to more reactions, and has a cascading effect. The poem lodges itself in your throat like a hard pill to swallow.
pills from big to small
shrapnel
Alfred Booth
This poem may appear straightforward at first glance, but the contrast it creates is rich in layers of meaning. The placement of “swallowing” in the opening line establishes the tone for the poem’s central feeling and grabs the reader’s attention right away. Despite the fact that some of our panelists regularly take pills for various conditions, they claim that the discomfort associated with swallowing is still unmatched, and this poem does a fantastic job of capturing that emotion. The clever placement of “pills” in the second line allows for an alternate reading of “swallowing shrapnel,” a potent metaphor for an illness or disease that unexpectedly hits you like a bullet. The side effects of the medications, as one panelist observed, bring their own shrapnel, much as one reaction triggers a chain reaction that leads to more reactions, and has a cascading effect. The poem lodges itself in your throat like a hard pill to swallow.
the secret song of the creek my mother asks for her mother
Anette Chaney
One panelist rediscovered this wonderful ode to motherhood as a hybrid Haiku-Tanka, a Haika. This poem about homecoming and transience is trailblazing because of its multiple readings and interpretations.
As a haiku:
the secret song of the creek
my mother asks
for her mother
And as a tanka:
the secret
song of the creek
my mother
asks for
her mother
As a powerful haika, we are invited to enter “the secret,” something abstract yet its emphasis on “the” makes us inquisitive about the theme. Is it referring to ‘the secret of life’ or some hereditary secret? As the meditative space deepens, “the secret” is made concrete with “song of the creek”, an auditory perception that evokes images of events and conversations. Ah, the water song! One would like to stay with this for a longer time. Many things come back to us in the same and different ways. Perhaps they have curative and transformative properties. Perhaps they are painful and have been contained for too long and now must be faced so that one can let go of them like water. With several breathtaking associations, it is here that my mother's face vividly enters the mind field.
Just like I ask for my mother, today, “my mother asks for her mother.” What day is this? What is happening? Is someone sick? The usage of ‘my’ and ‘her’ not only indicates possessive belongingness but also generational gaps alongside weaving feelings of empathy. Presently, my mother only needs her mother. Has the protagonist seen her mother’s mother? Is the protagonist thinking about her daughter, too? Perhaps this is yet the unknown path, or “the secret.”
Here, the artistic value is in the technique of repetition that touches the boundary of each generation. This has been achieved through the vivid metaphor of “creek” that develops sequential relationships with all the words here. We can also read it as “the creek my mother.” The flowing water poem symbolizes a language without break, the harmony of various generations whose identities are connected through the symphony of belonging and vulnerability. Water flowing through the self of the protagonist becomes that deeper boundary where I (the self) meet and overlap with what is “not me.”
Another aspect that strikes us is an important part of this work—“asks for.” Does my mother ask through her eyes or some subtle body movement? Difficult to master, the art of asking requires cultivating trust, getting uncomfortable, and making space for a NO, too. Is that what mothers can do so beautifully, always? And then, we are left wondering what may be on the other side of this ‘asking.’
Anette Chaney
One panelist rediscovered this wonderful ode to motherhood as a hybrid Haiku-Tanka, a Haika. This poem about homecoming and transience is trailblazing because of its multiple readings and interpretations.
As a haiku:
the secret song of the creek
my mother asks
for her mother
And as a tanka:
the secret
song of the creek
my mother
asks for
her mother
As a powerful haika, we are invited to enter “the secret,” something abstract yet its emphasis on “the” makes us inquisitive about the theme. Is it referring to ‘the secret of life’ or some hereditary secret? As the meditative space deepens, “the secret” is made concrete with “song of the creek”, an auditory perception that evokes images of events and conversations. Ah, the water song! One would like to stay with this for a longer time. Many things come back to us in the same and different ways. Perhaps they have curative and transformative properties. Perhaps they are painful and have been contained for too long and now must be faced so that one can let go of them like water. With several breathtaking associations, it is here that my mother's face vividly enters the mind field.
Just like I ask for my mother, today, “my mother asks for her mother.” What day is this? What is happening? Is someone sick? The usage of ‘my’ and ‘her’ not only indicates possessive belongingness but also generational gaps alongside weaving feelings of empathy. Presently, my mother only needs her mother. Has the protagonist seen her mother’s mother? Is the protagonist thinking about her daughter, too? Perhaps this is yet the unknown path, or “the secret.”
Here, the artistic value is in the technique of repetition that touches the boundary of each generation. This has been achieved through the vivid metaphor of “creek” that develops sequential relationships with all the words here. We can also read it as “the creek my mother.” The flowing water poem symbolizes a language without break, the harmony of various generations whose identities are connected through the symphony of belonging and vulnerability. Water flowing through the self of the protagonist becomes that deeper boundary where I (the self) meet and overlap with what is “not me.”
Another aspect that strikes us is an important part of this work—“asks for.” Does my mother ask through her eyes or some subtle body movement? Difficult to master, the art of asking requires cultivating trust, getting uncomfortable, and making space for a NO, too. Is that what mothers can do so beautifully, always? And then, we are left wondering what may be on the other side of this ‘asking.’
peeling off
the best before label
childless by choice
Antoinette Cheung
This senryū instantly stood out because of its well-crafted juxtaposition between one’s physical world and the mental world. Whereas in a supermarket, I am careful to read and never peel off “the best before label” but mentally, just like the protagonist, I have been peeling away from the boundaries and labels imposed by societal structures. The constant ambivalent tension created through this disjunctive interaction bubbles up multiple interpretations for each reader, irrespective of societal roles and expectations. It’s not only about making a choice, but “peeling off” motley forms of culture to reveal different layers of functional, psychological, and biological foundations that encourage procreation for various reasons.
In a society inclined towards pronatalism, communication between mothers and non-mothers is painfully hesitant. The conscious decision not to have a baby may lead to one’s isolation from a major part of society that constantly questions every aspect of identity as a woman and a person. This poem about being “childless by choice” not only blurs labels but is also a strong voice against practices that force women to bear children against their will. We admire the poet’s courage in bringing into focus the dignity of non-parenthood.
We also believe that the usage of the traditional poetic structure here to convey this trailblazing thought displays poetic maturity and releases us from societal boundaries, reiterating that respecting diversity can lead to universal happiness.
the best before label
childless by choice
Antoinette Cheung
This senryū instantly stood out because of its well-crafted juxtaposition between one’s physical world and the mental world. Whereas in a supermarket, I am careful to read and never peel off “the best before label” but mentally, just like the protagonist, I have been peeling away from the boundaries and labels imposed by societal structures. The constant ambivalent tension created through this disjunctive interaction bubbles up multiple interpretations for each reader, irrespective of societal roles and expectations. It’s not only about making a choice, but “peeling off” motley forms of culture to reveal different layers of functional, psychological, and biological foundations that encourage procreation for various reasons.
In a society inclined towards pronatalism, communication between mothers and non-mothers is painfully hesitant. The conscious decision not to have a baby may lead to one’s isolation from a major part of society that constantly questions every aspect of identity as a woman and a person. This poem about being “childless by choice” not only blurs labels but is also a strong voice against practices that force women to bear children against their will. We admire the poet’s courage in bringing into focus the dignity of non-parenthood.
We also believe that the usage of the traditional poetic structure here to convey this trailblazing thought displays poetic maturity and releases us from societal boundaries, reiterating that respecting diversity can lead to universal happiness.
add | | voice | | to | | sea | | rain
jim kacian
At first read, the lines look like rain. But the word “rain” is present, so there is no reason to repeat it symbolically. What else might be happening here? Immediately, the lines cause each word to feel separate and enunciated, as if shouting. This in itself is remarkable as ALL CAPS is the typical way to indicate that someone is yelling. The shouting places us in the scene of a storm at sea, although the word “storm” does not need to be stated for us to understand this.
But where is the protagonist in this poem? Ah, the lines are not rain, but two-masted ships, perhaps schooners, yawls, ketches, or brigantines. We can read this poem as a schooner race! The shiphands are above deck, in the rain, so there is urgency to the poem as they struggle to communicate and make preparations during the race. The shiphands and their voices are weaving in and out of the masts. The sea and the rain have their voices too, legato notes which contrast with the staccato notes of the human voices. The homonym of “sea” and “see” adds another layer of visual to the audible, focusing our sight on the line-boats and the rain.
jim kacian
At first read, the lines look like rain. But the word “rain” is present, so there is no reason to repeat it symbolically. What else might be happening here? Immediately, the lines cause each word to feel separate and enunciated, as if shouting. This in itself is remarkable as ALL CAPS is the typical way to indicate that someone is yelling. The shouting places us in the scene of a storm at sea, although the word “storm” does not need to be stated for us to understand this.
But where is the protagonist in this poem? Ah, the lines are not rain, but two-masted ships, perhaps schooners, yawls, ketches, or brigantines. We can read this poem as a schooner race! The shiphands are above deck, in the rain, so there is urgency to the poem as they struggle to communicate and make preparations during the race. The shiphands and their voices are weaving in and out of the masts. The sea and the rain have their voices too, legato notes which contrast with the staccato notes of the human voices. The homonym of “sea” and “see” adds another layer of visual to the audible, focusing our sight on the line-boats and the rain.
MULTI-DIRECTIONAL MULTI-KU (multi-ku)
John Pappas
John Pappas
This poem by John Pappas is a direct response to the question “Why poetry?”. The structure and crossword-like arrangement reminds us of a sudo-ku that wasn't filled all the way. One panelist observed that it can even be interpreted as a meandering ku because it can be viewed in dimensions other than just the horizontal and vertical. We like how seclusion, a common topic in the text, is contrasted with the shape of the multi-ku, which resembles a window. When you’re sick and confined to your home, you become conscious of certain things. Even the slightest sound or sight is magnified. In a similar vein, when you’re miserable, you tend to think negative things happen more frequently than they actually do. This is indeed a solid ground for poetry, and this stillness can be enriching. It is here we were also reminded of “The Waste Land” by T.S. Eliot and its evocation of Walt Whitman's “Lilacs.” In the elegy, Whitman's thrush becomes the source of reconciliation to Lincoln's death. It seems like the poet, too, deeply feels the death of Saint Cian here and encourages us to see the psychically charged symbols and images that hold meaning and energy for him. That calls him to adventure. What his internal world is peeking up at. Taking notice of. Leaning into.
Gundaroo (multi-ku)
Gregory Piko
the bob of a silvereye
drinking
sapphire sky
an old man
in a hat
wandering about
in the cemetery
grape hyacinths
a few sheets of iron
askew
in a rusty gutter
the bob of a silvereye
drinking
on the road out of town
an old man
in a hat
This uncommon form is called a Haiku Shuffle, a multi-haiku (multi-ku) that involves a series of fragments and phrases arranged like building blocks in a way that creates both individual haiku and a longer-form poem that feels reminiscent of free verse poetry. As a multi-ku, a haiku shuffle does not link and shift the way a haiku sequence like a rengay would do; the haiku focus on a single theme. The haiku parts can be recombined, inverted, and repeated in various ways.
Gundaroo is the name of a small village in New South Wales, Australia. The poem paints a scene using shuffled haiku pieces: “an old man / in a hat / wandering about” and “wandering about / in the cemetery / grape hyacinths.” As the images and word patterns repeat, the reader is drawn more deeply into the scene in an almost meditative way. The old man in a hat is mentioned twice. It could be a second old man, but it seems the poem is emphasizing the focus of our attention, that we notice him twice. We keep returning to this protagonist as a rolling rhythm of possibility as he walks.
The imagery feels specific to the area but universal enough for the reader to connect with it. One panelist mentioned that the repetition and resonance, when read aloud, felt like slam poetry. This multi-ku is expansive of the haiku form while maintaining the classic aesthetics of image-based observations captured in the moment.
Gregory Piko
the bob of a silvereye
drinking
sapphire sky
an old man
in a hat
wandering about
in the cemetery
grape hyacinths
a few sheets of iron
askew
in a rusty gutter
the bob of a silvereye
drinking
on the road out of town
an old man
in a hat
This uncommon form is called a Haiku Shuffle, a multi-haiku (multi-ku) that involves a series of fragments and phrases arranged like building blocks in a way that creates both individual haiku and a longer-form poem that feels reminiscent of free verse poetry. As a multi-ku, a haiku shuffle does not link and shift the way a haiku sequence like a rengay would do; the haiku focus on a single theme. The haiku parts can be recombined, inverted, and repeated in various ways.
Gundaroo is the name of a small village in New South Wales, Australia. The poem paints a scene using shuffled haiku pieces: “an old man / in a hat / wandering about” and “wandering about / in the cemetery / grape hyacinths.” As the images and word patterns repeat, the reader is drawn more deeply into the scene in an almost meditative way. The old man in a hat is mentioned twice. It could be a second old man, but it seems the poem is emphasizing the focus of our attention, that we notice him twice. We keep returning to this protagonist as a rolling rhythm of possibility as he walks.
The imagery feels specific to the area but universal enough for the reader to connect with it. One panelist mentioned that the repetition and resonance, when read aloud, felt like slam poetry. This multi-ku is expansive of the haiku form while maintaining the classic aesthetics of image-based observations captured in the moment.
jackdaw mountain shapes mist-slip between dreams
Tim Roberts
This poem is immediately evocative and makes us conjure the jackdaw in our mind’s eye, effortlessly flying between the peaks and valleys of a mist-covered mountain. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say this is something straight out of a postcard or a perfectly composed photograph. The myriad ways in which this monoku can be read adds to the mysticism:
jackdaw / mountain shapes / mist-slip between dreams
jackdaw mountain / shapes mist-slip between dreams
jackdaw mountain shapes / mist-slip between dreams
jackdaw mountain / shapes mist-slip / between dreams
jackdaw mountain / shapes mist-slip between / dreams
In essence, as one panelist noted, it seems to ground an ethereal, dreamworld in reality through the use of concrete imagery. The phrase “mist-slip,” with its delicious sibilants, becomes a portal to travel between states of consciousness. It is reminiscent of falling into the alpha, beta, or even delta states of the mind while asleep. The slipperiness becomes a metaphor for how easily we can maneuver between these various stages and, at the same time, question the thin line between the real and non-real, or that which is veiled in mist, maya. As another panelist beautifully observed, the hyphen, then, divides the poem into the real and dream worlds.
Tim Roberts
This poem is immediately evocative and makes us conjure the jackdaw in our mind’s eye, effortlessly flying between the peaks and valleys of a mist-covered mountain. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say this is something straight out of a postcard or a perfectly composed photograph. The myriad ways in which this monoku can be read adds to the mysticism:
jackdaw / mountain shapes / mist-slip between dreams
jackdaw mountain / shapes mist-slip between dreams
jackdaw mountain shapes / mist-slip between dreams
jackdaw mountain / shapes mist-slip / between dreams
jackdaw mountain / shapes mist-slip between / dreams
In essence, as one panelist noted, it seems to ground an ethereal, dreamworld in reality through the use of concrete imagery. The phrase “mist-slip,” with its delicious sibilants, becomes a portal to travel between states of consciousness. It is reminiscent of falling into the alpha, beta, or even delta states of the mind while asleep. The slipperiness becomes a metaphor for how easily we can maneuver between these various stages and, at the same time, question the thin line between the real and non-real, or that which is veiled in mist, maya. As another panelist beautifully observed, the hyphen, then, divides the poem into the real and dream worlds.
still born inside the after-black an ounce of moon
Rowan Beckett
While the subject matter of the poem may not appear trailblazing, the presentation, use of kigo, and turns of phrase make it uniquely so. One panelist noted that the kigo “moon” has been used as a measurement in this poem, at once dark, disturbing, and hopeful. The moment that has been so well captured in this piece is a distilled snapshot of trauma itself. The phrase “after-black” could refer to the unbearable grief that one prepares for after the loss of a child or could quite literally refer to the remains of a stillborn after a miscarriage. The poet was wise to leave “still” and “born” separate to allow for varied reads. For example,
still born inside / the after-black / an ounce of moon
still born / inside the after-black / an ounce of moon
still / born inside the after-black / an ounce of moon
The juxtaposition of “after-black” with “an ounce of moon” are like the opposite ends of a seesaw, where the persona grapples with the finality of death and yet finds a semblance of hope, however impossible or inconsequential at first.
This poem also works if we remove it from the context of the human world and look at it through the lens of the undiscovered mysteries of the universe at large: the moon, black holes, and the birth and death of stars.
Rowan Beckett
While the subject matter of the poem may not appear trailblazing, the presentation, use of kigo, and turns of phrase make it uniquely so. One panelist noted that the kigo “moon” has been used as a measurement in this poem, at once dark, disturbing, and hopeful. The moment that has been so well captured in this piece is a distilled snapshot of trauma itself. The phrase “after-black” could refer to the unbearable grief that one prepares for after the loss of a child or could quite literally refer to the remains of a stillborn after a miscarriage. The poet was wise to leave “still” and “born” separate to allow for varied reads. For example,
still born inside / the after-black / an ounce of moon
still born / inside the after-black / an ounce of moon
still / born inside the after-black / an ounce of moon
The juxtaposition of “after-black” with “an ounce of moon” are like the opposite ends of a seesaw, where the persona grapples with the finality of death and yet finds a semblance of hope, however impossible or inconsequential at first.
This poem also works if we remove it from the context of the human world and look at it through the lens of the undiscovered mysteries of the universe at large: the moon, black holes, and the birth and death of stars.
north east dogwood south west
Joshua St. Claire
Joshua St. Claire
In addition to transporting us to a place outside of ourselves, this remarkable concrete poem also, if thoughtfully charged, takes us on a voyage into the depths of our own consciousness. The visual cues complement the verbal cues and suggest an experimental creative delay for new perceptions. Upon first reading, the reader is taken to a vibrant location. One of the panelists raised the possibility that the poem serves as a visual hint for an aerial photograph or a forest map. Dogwood Forest, anyone?
In the second interpretation, we notice that the distinct arrangement of letters compels the reader’s attention to the sides and center again and again. The petal-words in “dogwood” themselves are written so that they all read inward. “Dog” is counterclockwise and “wood” is clockwise. Additionally, the letter D at the bottom gives a misread of God instead of Dog. Maybe they are suggesting it’s God’s compass?
In the third reading, the anagram of “dog” at the top as “god” mingled with “wood” as a homophone “god would” leads us to interpret the compass as a cross as well. Even the way the dogwood is positioned in the middle echoes the crucifixion. At this point, this poem is a visual representation of the compass rose. The cross as a compass unlocks the spirituality in nature.
Additionally, it plays on the temptations we experience regularly, and the idea that just about anything can be justified as the right thing to do makes us question our own “moral compass.” It just keeps coming.
Unearthed (multi-ku)
Julie Schwerin
after years
of quiet mingling these bones
fasting
heavy
with the weight of
longing for
what I’ve never
heard one
moment
of silence
now nothing
interesting
to ponder meditation
still
in the dark
searching for meaning
I check the time
in my dream a head of lettuce
bursts
like the urgent
into this bubble rubble
I’ve
become
apostrophe-less
divvying up whats his
and whats
mine
In addition to its personal topic and craftful use of language, we were especially struck by the way this multi-ku seems to blur the boundaries between a senryū sequence and free verse poetry. The assembly seems rather complex and layered, adding to the interest and meaning, as many of the lines of the individual senryū are spaced apart giving the reader the visual cue that they may read them with the next line as well.
For example, in the sample of the poem below, the word “heavy” may be read both with “fasting” and with “with the weight of”. This reinforces these keywords and we can actually read them twice as we read the poem, creating an overall more powerful piece: “after years / of quiet mingling these bones / fasting / heavy / heavy / with the weight of / longing for / what I’ve never / heard one . . .”
after years
of quiet mingling these bones
fasting
heavy
with the weight of
longing for
what I’ve never
heard one
The constant feeling of breaking apart and coming back together repeats throughout the poem, finally landing on a solitary note, accomplished with the keen use of line cuts, spacing, and keywords. This lends itself particularly well to the topic of the poem and the struggle of the protagonist.
Julie Schwerin
after years
of quiet mingling these bones
fasting
heavy
with the weight of
longing for
what I’ve never
heard one
moment
of silence
now nothing
interesting
to ponder meditation
still
in the dark
searching for meaning
I check the time
in my dream a head of lettuce
bursts
like the urgent
into this bubble rubble
I’ve
become
apostrophe-less
divvying up whats his
and whats
mine
In addition to its personal topic and craftful use of language, we were especially struck by the way this multi-ku seems to blur the boundaries between a senryū sequence and free verse poetry. The assembly seems rather complex and layered, adding to the interest and meaning, as many of the lines of the individual senryū are spaced apart giving the reader the visual cue that they may read them with the next line as well.
For example, in the sample of the poem below, the word “heavy” may be read both with “fasting” and with “with the weight of”. This reinforces these keywords and we can actually read them twice as we read the poem, creating an overall more powerful piece: “after years / of quiet mingling these bones / fasting / heavy / heavy / with the weight of / longing for / what I’ve never / heard one . . .”
after years
of quiet mingling these bones
fasting
heavy
with the weight of
longing for
what I’ve never
heard one
The constant feeling of breaking apart and coming back together repeats throughout the poem, finally landing on a solitary note, accomplished with the keen use of line cuts, spacing, and keywords. This lends itself particularly well to the topic of the poem and the struggle of the protagonist.
rose-colored glasses the frame
Margaret Walker
This four-word poem stood out to us precisely because of its deceptive simplicity. “rose-colored” glasses are not so much to blame as the frame that holds them in place. The frame could stand in for society, our preconceived notions, belief systems, religion, culture, or any number of things that perpetuate a disconnect from the truth. We continue to see things not for what they are but for what we think they are. Conditioning becomes ingrained and we remain in uncomfortable, damaging, even abusive conditions. How does one tear down the scaffolding, rebuild the foundation, and break the cycle?
This senryū handles an important topic deftly and is quietly trailblazing.
Margaret Walker
This four-word poem stood out to us precisely because of its deceptive simplicity. “rose-colored” glasses are not so much to blame as the frame that holds them in place. The frame could stand in for society, our preconceived notions, belief systems, religion, culture, or any number of things that perpetuate a disconnect from the truth. We continue to see things not for what they are but for what we think they are. Conditioning becomes ingrained and we remain in uncomfortable, damaging, even abusive conditions. How does one tear down the scaffolding, rebuild the foundation, and break the cycle?
This senryū handles an important topic deftly and is quietly trailblazing.
winter funeral--
lots of s’s
in our whispers
Michael Dylan Welch
What may at first appear simple, we found the usage of “s’s” in this poem to be unique and to accomplish many things. Because this haiku takes place at a funeral, we can imagine many discussions involving “he’s/she’s xyz . . .” in reference to the deceased. But also, in families with tumult, this could be “Did you see x’s xyz?” The s’s are also a great way to show possessive forms for possessions and relations after someone’s death (hers, his, theirs, ours, and all of the ’s, etc . . .) while dealing with the unfortunate complications involved with the estate of a deceased loved one. Often at funerals, words of condolence are whispered, and the words “. . . so sorry . . .” are repeated on loop. We also appreciated the use of “winter” and how it tied in with the sound of those s’s as well, as it enhances the sound of the whispers carrying on a whistling winter wind.
(Note: Our apologies to the poet. That is supposed to be an em dash at the end of L1 but our website automatically reformats it to two en dashes unless it is abutted by a word on each side.)
lots of s’s
in our whispers
Michael Dylan Welch
What may at first appear simple, we found the usage of “s’s” in this poem to be unique and to accomplish many things. Because this haiku takes place at a funeral, we can imagine many discussions involving “he’s/she’s xyz . . .” in reference to the deceased. But also, in families with tumult, this could be “Did you see x’s xyz?” The s’s are also a great way to show possessive forms for possessions and relations after someone’s death (hers, his, theirs, ours, and all of the ’s, etc . . .) while dealing with the unfortunate complications involved with the estate of a deceased loved one. Often at funerals, words of condolence are whispered, and the words “. . . so sorry . . .” are repeated on loop. We also appreciated the use of “winter” and how it tied in with the sound of those s’s as well, as it enhances the sound of the whispers carrying on a whistling winter wind.
(Note: Our apologies to the poet. That is supposed to be an em dash at the end of L1 but our website automatically reformats it to two en dashes unless it is abutted by a word on each side.)
Tanka:
from swallow to tail a ghost town hosts the body before
Rowan Beckett
Through this poem's powerful gothic vocabulary and imagery, we can imagine the protagonist visiting numerous little and big ghost towns until they arrive at the one to which they can most relate. The entire event takes place between two powerful words “from” and “before” that highlight the fluidity as well as the disjointedness of past, present, and future.
We found the following breakup leading us to many profound insights.
from
swallow to tail
a ghost town
hosts the body
before
“from,” “to,” and “before” function as elements of time, conveying the protagonist’s strong emotional relationship to traces of the body's past vibrance. This not only empowers us towards a process of self-recognition but has many important implications.
Firstly, the allusion to a swallowtail (a butterfly, bird, or kite) may be symbolizing an almost dramatic cyclical transformation paralleling the human dead in the process of becoming ancestors. Opening up the word “swallow to tail” helps us to visualize the emptiness of this body from top to bottom or a certain phase and the soul despairing to find hope, freedom, and meaning in one’s emotional life.
Secondly, the theme of “a ghost town” is an apt structural metaphor for an individual and historical crisis. This body’s extinct town is a personal as well as historical hosting of former selves that the protagonist is touring again and again through their powerful mind. What more are they seeing and feeling in this ghost town?
Thirdly, this postmodern one-line tanka has a universal message that human existence is a game without fixed rules. That which once flourished as a town or a body is now both real and illusory. The poem opens up our minds to many questions: Are there possibilities for revival? How can history help us to reshape or alter the future? Will a personal transformation lead to the final loss of the past?
Though we found this one-line tanka to have only one primary breakdown, its delivery of space and time is heightened in this format versus the five-line format.
Thank you for letting us visit this precious ghost town. We’ve learned so much from this trailblazing composition.
Rowan Beckett
Through this poem's powerful gothic vocabulary and imagery, we can imagine the protagonist visiting numerous little and big ghost towns until they arrive at the one to which they can most relate. The entire event takes place between two powerful words “from” and “before” that highlight the fluidity as well as the disjointedness of past, present, and future.
We found the following breakup leading us to many profound insights.
from
swallow to tail
a ghost town
hosts the body
before
“from,” “to,” and “before” function as elements of time, conveying the protagonist’s strong emotional relationship to traces of the body's past vibrance. This not only empowers us towards a process of self-recognition but has many important implications.
Firstly, the allusion to a swallowtail (a butterfly, bird, or kite) may be symbolizing an almost dramatic cyclical transformation paralleling the human dead in the process of becoming ancestors. Opening up the word “swallow to tail” helps us to visualize the emptiness of this body from top to bottom or a certain phase and the soul despairing to find hope, freedom, and meaning in one’s emotional life.
Secondly, the theme of “a ghost town” is an apt structural metaphor for an individual and historical crisis. This body’s extinct town is a personal as well as historical hosting of former selves that the protagonist is touring again and again through their powerful mind. What more are they seeing and feeling in this ghost town?
Thirdly, this postmodern one-line tanka has a universal message that human existence is a game without fixed rules. That which once flourished as a town or a body is now both real and illusory. The poem opens up our minds to many questions: Are there possibilities for revival? How can history help us to reshape or alter the future? Will a personal transformation lead to the final loss of the past?
Though we found this one-line tanka to have only one primary breakdown, its delivery of space and time is heightened in this format versus the five-line format.
Thank you for letting us visit this precious ghost town. We’ve learned so much from this trailblazing composition.
to have never existed through blinds the sunlight slices you naked
Rowan Beckett
This slippery one-line tanka addresses provocative views on existence with powerful language and imagery throughout. Is this moment of a fresh recognition of existence? Is it talking about disembodied existence? How does this body affect us? Is one better off not being born? Coming into existence causes net harm and goes against our basic disposition of optimism. This human thought has been well juxtaposed with the ever-existent “sunlight.” It ends with the crucial word “naked” which has multiple interpretations for existence and death. The use of prepositions “to” and “through” links two contrasting thoughts well. There are so many layers to this poem. This is an unpleasant but exceptional theme not typical in tanka.
Here are a couple of ways to divide up the poem to get different reads:
to have
never existed
through blinds
the sunlight slices
you naked
to have never
existed through blinds
the sunlight
slices you
naked
But also, there is another breakdown that creates an entirely different poem! As with one-line haiku, the beauty of one-line tanka is that it opens itself up to many reads and interpretations and this one did just that. If we add in the implied “I” to L2 and take longer pauses at the ends of L1 and L2, we get an entirely different poem.
to have:
(I) never existed,
through blinds
the sunlight slices
you naked
In this read, we have longing and yearning for someone (“to have”) who has rendered the protagonist “non-existent” by not giving them the attention or love that they are looking for. Watching through the blinds, the sunlight, so bright, has visually bleached them white.
Rowan Beckett
This slippery one-line tanka addresses provocative views on existence with powerful language and imagery throughout. Is this moment of a fresh recognition of existence? Is it talking about disembodied existence? How does this body affect us? Is one better off not being born? Coming into existence causes net harm and goes against our basic disposition of optimism. This human thought has been well juxtaposed with the ever-existent “sunlight.” It ends with the crucial word “naked” which has multiple interpretations for existence and death. The use of prepositions “to” and “through” links two contrasting thoughts well. There are so many layers to this poem. This is an unpleasant but exceptional theme not typical in tanka.
Here are a couple of ways to divide up the poem to get different reads:
to have
never existed
through blinds
the sunlight slices
you naked
to have never
existed through blinds
the sunlight
slices you
naked
But also, there is another breakdown that creates an entirely different poem! As with one-line haiku, the beauty of one-line tanka is that it opens itself up to many reads and interpretations and this one did just that. If we add in the implied “I” to L2 and take longer pauses at the ends of L1 and L2, we get an entirely different poem.
to have:
(I) never existed,
through blinds
the sunlight slices
you naked
In this read, we have longing and yearning for someone (“to have”) who has rendered the protagonist “non-existent” by not giving them the attention or love that they are looking for. Watching through the blinds, the sunlight, so bright, has visually bleached them white.
welling cuts there is nothing left to say to her that hasn't already been said…
Debbie Strange
Debbie Strange
It would not be an understatement to note that this concrete tanka puzzled and intrigued us the most at first glance. We felt like detectives trying to piece together the almost asemic-like marks in red until one of the panelists pointed us in the right direction; the marks are commonly used in proofreading. Here, the marks denote:
INSERT / CAPITALIZE / CLOSE GAP / DELETE / LOWERCASE / NEW PARAGRAPH / TRANSPOSE
The shape of the tanka mimics that of welling cutting pliers, commonly used for marking and trimming the meat in livestock such as pigs, goats, and cattle. If the poem were to be presented in the traditional s/l/s/l/l format, it would look something like this:
welling cuts
there is nothing left
to say to her
that hasn’t already
been said…
Instead, the poet has chosen to create clusters of two, three, and four lines respectively, to show the biting action of the “cuts.” This could be interpreted as an abusive relationship, perhaps between a mother and a daughter, on the brink of a complete breakdown in communication. As another panelist noted, the marks add to the sense of panic or mental confusion experienced by the persona. In this context, it would be interesting to look at the wordplay of “welling,” used as a noun and a verb here, causing them to emotionally “well up.” They are constantly walking on eggshells, trying to watch what they say, but it doesn’t matter—everything they say is turned against them, leading to an impasse. When the same fights are picked or triggered repeatedly, the responses become verbatim and, unfortunately, one starts to predict the next likely barb coming one’s way. The deliberate choice to place the ellipsis at the end and not after “welling cuts” shows the resignation of the poet’s persona.
This was one of the stronger tanka entries we received and is trailblazing for the risks it takes, both visually and conceptually.
Founded by Kat Lehmann, Shloka Shankar, and Robin Smith in 2021.
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