IN SULLEN SILENCE: A TANKA COLLECTION

Waka is a genre of Japanese poetry. Waka literally means “Japanese poem” in Japanese. The word originally encompassed a number of differing styles. The main two are tanka (literally “short poem”) and chōka (literally “long poem”), but there are others. The term waka came in time to simply imply the one sub-form tanka.


I listen one last time
to the songs of the grass and wind.
On top of the hill,
more homes are ready
to be built.

(5/26/01)

* * *

The sounds of the truck
give way to
the sounds of the crickets
as I walk
in this dark night.

(5/29/01)

* * *

I find no peace of mind
in the middle of the labyrinth.
I walk straight out,
kicking the stones
in frustration.

(6/8/01)

* * *

Pulling out
the ironing board,
I wonder why
my best friend
likes me.

(6/26/01)

* * *

The nighttime peace
is broken by the
opening and closing
of the old screen door—
my restless father.

(7/3/01)

MEMORIES OF A PILGRIMAGE: A TANKA COLLECTION

Waka is a genre of Japanese poetry. Waka literally means “Japanese poem” in Japanese. The word originally encompassed a number of differing styles. The main two are tanka (literally “short poem”) and chōka (literally “long poem”), but there are others. The term waka came in time to simply imply the one sub-form tanka.


Standing on the Persian rug,
offering my prayers,
my feet begin to tingle—
they have the weight
of bricks.

* * *

Inside the atrium,
looking at the
freshly-watered ferns
and red roses,
I begin to cry.

* * *

When my mind has
run out of dreams to have
and my soul places to wander,
I lay in bed and
stare at the ceiling.

* * *

The cabinet doors
are opened and the faces
of my Twin Lords are
before me—
my feet are stuck to the ground.

* * *

Looking at the
photograph of my Lord,
I pull back,
fearing I will
remember it.

* * *

Behind glass is the
mirror God looked into,
turned around backwards
so someone like I
cannot look into it.

* * *

I look at the handkerchief,
stained with blood
that the god of the Persians
coughed into when poisoned,
and sigh.

* * *

The sponge used
to clean the body
of my Lord
now rests in the
cabinet, dry.

* * *

Observing a Persian custom,
His hair and beard were
black for His whole life.
When His Father died,
they faded to grey.

* * *

Immersed in bliss,
I pace the outside
of the shrine,
listening to my footsteps
and the evening crickets.

* * *

Pocket watch in left hand,
he looks at the time and says,
“And now, dear friends,
I say goodbye.
I hope we meet again.”

* * *

Bowing my head
and resting it on the
sacred threshold,
I say,
“Give me a good end.”