Results of The Saigyo Awards for Tanka 2008
The Saigyo Awards for Tanka 2008
First Prize $100
still held
by the sound
of a shakuhachi flute
I walk out into the wind
with holes in my bones
Peter Yovu
There is no deeper a reader can go into a poem than to become the subject itself, become the "bones." I'm a Japanese flute, and the tanka rests quietly inside me. Every word counts. None can be eliminated or replaced by another word. Being unfamiliar with "shakuhachi," I had to repeat it aloud several times slowly and with full concentration to get it right, finding the word delightful. This poem stays with me. It has zen quality, holding some deep truth I can talk around but not quite hit center. Yet it's simple and open with nothing hidden. Peter expresses his profound experience subtly, simply, perfectly, and I feel a bit in awe of myself that I am open enough to feel it in my marrow. I bow to the poet.
Second Prize $50
putting away
the silverware—-suddenly
I am caught—-
upside-down in a world
mercurial and floating
Marjorie Buettner
This tanka sent me first to the silverware drawer, then to the dictionary. I was "caught" by the word "mercurial." It rolls, off the tongue or in the mind, like the mercury that escaped from the thermometer I broke as a child, forming little balls rolling about on the floor, mesmerizing me. Mercurial means changeable, unpredictable. The backside of a spoon is like a mirror, but inside the bowl one's image is upside down and blurred—-a "floating" world. Within this poem is the ordinary and the extraordinary existing side-by-side in perfect harmony. It is a moment of sudden awareness during the performance of an ordinary, and sometimes mindless, task. The poem's simple, present tense language gives it immediacy, allowing me to know how she feels because "suddenly I am caught," just as the poet is, within her "mercurial and floating" world.
Third Prize $25 (a tie)
I too, Saigyo,
left home, left
my country,
and my remote village at times
reminds me now of your wabi life
Sanford Goldstein
Were it not for the fact that I believe it is valuable to know why a poem is chosen for its prize, I would rather leave it alone in its space. Especially for one such as this where serenity, austerity and solitude, components of wabi, mingle with loneliness. The reader, then, isn't too soon pulled away from the feeling of the poem. There can be a sense of sadness associated with the spiritual life. But there's beauty in that. In speaking to Saigyo in plain language the poem itself is serene and austere. Sanford has developed a personal relationship with the old poet that we are allowed to witness.
Third Prize
New Year's Eve
my ninety-year-old mother
puts rollers in her hair
first red camellia
unfurls in the snow
Margaret Chula
This is a poem pregnant with association and symbolism. I love how Margaret provides the first red camellia, just beginning to open, to associate with the dawn of the New Year, and this newness to compare with the youthful spirit (red) of her mother, who in the winter (white) of her life still prepares to look her best to usher it in. The old year dies out while the ageless spirit moves ahead, living as opposed to dying. This is a poem about the human spirit, but as to craft it is a poem of discovery. The more I thought about it the more associations I found, which made the poem a living thing. It invites me to venture a little farther to imagine that when the rollers come out the red camellia unfurls in her mother's snow white hair. This is a masterful tanka of color and life.
Honorable Mention
choosing paper
for my new journal
I'm torn between
60# and 50# opaque
not sure how transparent I want to be
Aurora Antonovic
winter rain...
reading his letter
i touch the words
written by the hand
that once caressed me
Joan Murphy
last year
my mother stood
in my shoes
this year her hand
leaves my sleeve
Miriam Chaikin
a bluebird house
where her son's ashes
lie buried
he liked little things
the color of the sky
Dave Bacharach
with flowers—-
in half light I stand outside
your door
neither fully open
nor fully closed
Margaret L Grace
cleaning out
Mother's lingerie drawer
the tears in her stockings
sewn up so tightly—-
all my unanswered questions
Margaret Chula
my favorite road
winds hairpin
among pine and oak
at the top a perched village
where my friend lives
Giselle Maya
unburdening
my heart
to the buddha...
pure white rain
falling on the mountain
Pamela A. Babusci
remembering
the day I left you
can be too much
so I pretend you rode away
on a strong white horse
Michael McClintock
you were lost
to the night as quick
as this moth
when midsummer fog
stole her compass moon
an'ya
the love poem,
will I ever compose it?...
one with words
that shall read like birdsong
from a nightingale's beak
an'ya
midnight haiku
forgotten before
I could write it down
...listen, leaves this morning
are whispering it to the world
Dorothy McLaughlin
no lonely hut
no mountain village
I close the door
behind me to my room
well-lit with sunrise
Kathy Kituai
a white sail
skimming through
my dreams
teaches me the meaning
of everything
M. Kei
what is
the scent of solitude
incense swirling
silver to the ceiling
of this high room
Giselle Maya
through the high windows
just a sliver of blue sky
visible
ignoring stacks on the desk
I prop my chin on my hand
Sharon Hammer Baker
"chinese scholar tree,"
said the guide.
standing under it
i look up—-to see it
i cross the street
Miriam Chaikin
dark of night
moonless, starless
in steady rain
she walks a black dog
toward an empty house
Kirsty Karkow
at their age
the last trip abroad
they'll go on—-
and I'm the child again
hoping for a souvenir
Janet Lynn Davis
in the hot night air
scratching the dry sandy soil
to find a place
for the little daylily
in my sister's garden
Sharon Hammer Baker
Cork globe on her desk
Wears a smile made of pushpins—-
Her whimsical touch:
Like a poignant postscript
From a hand now grown cold.
Emily Romano
how steadily
yet slowly the ice recedes
this March day—-
so too grief becomes distilled
changed into another form
Marjorie Buettner
I wish to thank all the poets who entered the first Saigyo Awards for Tanka contest. I thoroughly enjoyed reading, judging and expressing my thoughts. Congratulations to the winners chosen from 285 entries.
Peace and joy,
Carolyn Thomas
First Prize $100
still held
by the sound
of a shakuhachi flute
I walk out into the wind
with holes in my bones
Peter Yovu
There is no deeper a reader can go into a poem than to become the subject itself, become the "bones." I'm a Japanese flute, and the tanka rests quietly inside me. Every word counts. None can be eliminated or replaced by another word. Being unfamiliar with "shakuhachi," I had to repeat it aloud several times slowly and with full concentration to get it right, finding the word delightful. This poem stays with me. It has zen quality, holding some deep truth I can talk around but not quite hit center. Yet it's simple and open with nothing hidden. Peter expresses his profound experience subtly, simply, perfectly, and I feel a bit in awe of myself that I am open enough to feel it in my marrow. I bow to the poet.
Second Prize $50
putting away
the silverware—-suddenly
I am caught—-
upside-down in a world
mercurial and floating
Marjorie Buettner
This tanka sent me first to the silverware drawer, then to the dictionary. I was "caught" by the word "mercurial." It rolls, off the tongue or in the mind, like the mercury that escaped from the thermometer I broke as a child, forming little balls rolling about on the floor, mesmerizing me. Mercurial means changeable, unpredictable. The backside of a spoon is like a mirror, but inside the bowl one's image is upside down and blurred—-a "floating" world. Within this poem is the ordinary and the extraordinary existing side-by-side in perfect harmony. It is a moment of sudden awareness during the performance of an ordinary, and sometimes mindless, task. The poem's simple, present tense language gives it immediacy, allowing me to know how she feels because "suddenly I am caught," just as the poet is, within her "mercurial and floating" world.
Third Prize $25 (a tie)
I too, Saigyo,
left home, left
my country,
and my remote village at times
reminds me now of your wabi life
Sanford Goldstein
Were it not for the fact that I believe it is valuable to know why a poem is chosen for its prize, I would rather leave it alone in its space. Especially for one such as this where serenity, austerity and solitude, components of wabi, mingle with loneliness. The reader, then, isn't too soon pulled away from the feeling of the poem. There can be a sense of sadness associated with the spiritual life. But there's beauty in that. In speaking to Saigyo in plain language the poem itself is serene and austere. Sanford has developed a personal relationship with the old poet that we are allowed to witness.
Third Prize
New Year's Eve
my ninety-year-old mother
puts rollers in her hair
first red camellia
unfurls in the snow
Margaret Chula
This is a poem pregnant with association and symbolism. I love how Margaret provides the first red camellia, just beginning to open, to associate with the dawn of the New Year, and this newness to compare with the youthful spirit (red) of her mother, who in the winter (white) of her life still prepares to look her best to usher it in. The old year dies out while the ageless spirit moves ahead, living as opposed to dying. This is a poem about the human spirit, but as to craft it is a poem of discovery. The more I thought about it the more associations I found, which made the poem a living thing. It invites me to venture a little farther to imagine that when the rollers come out the red camellia unfurls in her mother's snow white hair. This is a masterful tanka of color and life.
Honorable Mention
choosing paper
for my new journal
I'm torn between
60# and 50# opaque
not sure how transparent I want to be
Aurora Antonovic
winter rain...
reading his letter
i touch the words
written by the hand
that once caressed me
Joan Murphy
last year
my mother stood
in my shoes
this year her hand
leaves my sleeve
Miriam Chaikin
a bluebird house
where her son's ashes
lie buried
he liked little things
the color of the sky
Dave Bacharach
with flowers—-
in half light I stand outside
your door
neither fully open
nor fully closed
Margaret L Grace
cleaning out
Mother's lingerie drawer
the tears in her stockings
sewn up so tightly—-
all my unanswered questions
Margaret Chula
my favorite road
winds hairpin
among pine and oak
at the top a perched village
where my friend lives
Giselle Maya
unburdening
my heart
to the buddha...
pure white rain
falling on the mountain
Pamela A. Babusci
remembering
the day I left you
can be too much
so I pretend you rode away
on a strong white horse
Michael McClintock
you were lost
to the night as quick
as this moth
when midsummer fog
stole her compass moon
an'ya
the love poem,
will I ever compose it?...
one with words
that shall read like birdsong
from a nightingale's beak
an'ya
midnight haiku
forgotten before
I could write it down
...listen, leaves this morning
are whispering it to the world
Dorothy McLaughlin
no lonely hut
no mountain village
I close the door
behind me to my room
well-lit with sunrise
Kathy Kituai
a white sail
skimming through
my dreams
teaches me the meaning
of everything
M. Kei
what is
the scent of solitude
incense swirling
silver to the ceiling
of this high room
Giselle Maya
through the high windows
just a sliver of blue sky
visible
ignoring stacks on the desk
I prop my chin on my hand
Sharon Hammer Baker
"chinese scholar tree,"
said the guide.
standing under it
i look up—-to see it
i cross the street
Miriam Chaikin
dark of night
moonless, starless
in steady rain
she walks a black dog
toward an empty house
Kirsty Karkow
at their age
the last trip abroad
they'll go on—-
and I'm the child again
hoping for a souvenir
Janet Lynn Davis
in the hot night air
scratching the dry sandy soil
to find a place
for the little daylily
in my sister's garden
Sharon Hammer Baker
Cork globe on her desk
Wears a smile made of pushpins—-
Her whimsical touch:
Like a poignant postscript
From a hand now grown cold.
Emily Romano
how steadily
yet slowly the ice recedes
this March day—-
so too grief becomes distilled
changed into another form
Marjorie Buettner
I wish to thank all the poets who entered the first Saigyo Awards for Tanka contest. I thoroughly enjoyed reading, judging and expressing my thoughts. Congratulations to the winners chosen from 285 entries.
Peace and joy,
Carolyn Thomas
That was an amazing article. I stumbled across your article and felt it incredibly constructive.
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