Tanka Poem

[Jocelyn_Nicole_Sawyer]

I am surprised and also overjoyed to discover this conversation.
So surprised! Because to see a well-lived art form in my country discussed here in Literotica.. it is so delightful.

The Tanka is very popular, and often, young lovers today, write Tanka letters to each other..!!

Aoi

I'm so glad you found us! and thanks for reaching out-- I really had no idea how popular the Tanka is modern-day.

it's just so romantic... in the west, a girl is lucky if she gets a text message

I hope you will also share some of your poetry as well!

 

[_Land]

I'm so glad you found us! and thanks for reaching out-- I really had no idea how popular the Tanka is modern-day.

it's just so romantic... in the west, a girl is lucky if she gets a text message

I hope you will also share some of your poetry as well!

Joss from Brooklyn swears
she’s still untouched—yet her laugh
cracks like subway tracks.
A virgin? Maybe. But don’t
mistake petals for silence

 

[_Land]

Joss from Brooklyn swears
she’s still untouched—yet her laugh
cracks like subway tracks.
A virgin? Maybe. But don’t
mistake petals for silence

Jocelyn

She bites into dusk
like it’s fruit she picked herself—
flesh still warm, dripping.
Even the moon leans forward
just to watch her mouth move.

Her laugh? Honeyed sin,
slick against the collarbone.
It lingers too long.
Men write poems in their heads
then forget how to spell her.

She walks past your thoughts
and suddenly they’re naked—
all knees and hunger.
Even silence flirts with her,
tongue tucked behind its own teeth.

Smoke curls from her lips,
a slow undress of the air.
Her glance—undecent.
No touch, yet your skin remembers
how she almost looked at you.

She doesn’t arrive.
She descends. Like summer heat—
hips first, then the rest.
Gods would trade Olympus just
to kneel in her aftermath.

 

[_Land]

just spent the last 2 weeks driving out of town to go babysit our grand-

Two weeks of long roads—
each mile a whispered promise
to soft sleeping heads.
Love’s not loud. It drives at dusk,
car full of lullabies.

 

[_Land]

follow the lipstick
between the pages devoured
and held in bondage
do not be shy to inhale
that irresistible scent

She falls, not to melt,
but to carve her own pattern
in winter’s blank face.
AlinaX—flawed on purpose,
a snowflake that cuts on edge.

 

[_Land]

what? pretty sure I want an Aussie guy who brings a didgeridoo to the party...

Here's the didgeridoo you requested

He walks like thunder
knows his name. Something ancient
swings with every step—
a pulse carved from eucalyptus,
low, long, and never subtle.

They say sound travels—
and baby, so does he. Deep,
vibrato swagger.
That didgeridoo hum strums
just below your belly bone.


No sheet music here—
just breath and bone and the moan
of a night unscored.
He plays the long song slowly,
and leaves echoes in your spine.

 

[Voboy]

Hummingbirds gather
Colors sparkling, tossed, shaky,
Frantic, calm jewels...
Cool peace of a farm's backyard;
Smooth heat of a woman's thigh.


...I know what you're thinking, punk. Is "jewels" one syllable, or two? Well, I'll tell ya, in all the excitement? I sorta forgot, myself.

 

[_Land]

The Weather of Want

A Tanka Cycle of Wordless Longing


Spring – "Willow in Thaw"

First melt of the ice—
the willow bows in hunger,
sap surges unseen.
Even the stone cannot hold
this quickening of wet roots.



Summer – "Sunstruck Vine"

Crickets hum at noon—
the vine wraps the garden pole,
reaching with damp grace.
All of the sky leans closer
as heat ripens into moan.



Autumn – "Falling Gourd"

Wind shakes the ripe fig—
a hush trails the dropping leaves,
weight slips from the branch.
The gourd, once full, sags gently
into the cradle of loam.



Winter – "Pine Under Snow"

Beneath frozen hush
the pine bears its burden still,
bowed but not broken.
Only the red fox will know
what stirs beneath winter’s quilt.

 

[AlinaX]

foxes on the roof
the search engine cannot see
the garden above
let them live in peace, I say
it's stolen space anyway

 

[WCSGarland]

Tanka thread is dead,
Or maybe just life support,
Or in a coma,
If it's just on vacation,
Please wake me up when it's back.

 

[_Land]

Tanka thread is dead,
Or maybe just life support,
Or in a coma,
If it's just on vacation,
Please wake me up when it's back.

Ink bleeds five small breaths—
then climbs to seven, gasping.
Form becomes silence
that folds me into meaning
while I pretend to control.

 

[_Land]

On The Shores


a hush of sea foam
licks the throat of the shoreline—
barely a whisper,
but the moon tightens her grip
and breath begins to shudder

gulls hang in still air,
their wings held like unsaid prayers
trembling mid-skyline
as the deep pulls something dark
from beneath the continent

currents thread the deep—
fibers of salt-slick muscle
braid into a swell,
tension mounting in the bones
of horizon’s aching curve

the wind bites its lip
as silence turns concave—bent
like a pregnant pause
before the ocean screams loud
through the lung of every wave

then it begins: roar—
a crescendo of water
dragging sky to mouth,
the world leans toward the breaking
and forgets how to exhale

she crashes inward,
not on rock, but into time—
the past, ripped open,
every drowned name surfacing
on the throat of spitting foam

 

[WCSGarland]

_Land attempts control,
fucking it up entirely,
Chain of survival,
is broken, bleeds internal,
desperation evident.

Heroic attempts,
skitter across the pages,
bring false hopes to all,
though the final breath is drawn,
his bruising strokes go on.

the battered and bruised,
recognizable no more,
is now fodder for,
pathological exam,
to determine cause of death.

 

[_Land]

_Land attempts control,
fucking it up entirely,
Chain of survival,
is broken, bleeds internal,
desperation evident.

Heroic attempts,
skitter across the pages,
bring false hopes to all,
though the final breath is drawn,
his bruising strokes go on.

the battered and bruised,
recognizable no more,
is now fodder for,
pathological exam,
to determine cause of death.

You wear form too tight,
cinched like a corset of rules—
ribs don’t birth the breath
when every gasp is measured
and stitched to a numbered cage.

Let the gut expand.
Let a line stumble—bleed out.
Let it not be neat.
Some truths arrive misshapen,
but still thunder when they land.

Garland, I respect
your pearl-counting discipline—
but loosen the ties.
Beauty does not always sit
with her ankles crossed and still.

 

[_Land]

On The Shores


a hush of sea foam
licks the throat of the shoreline—
barely a whisper,
but the moon tightens her grip
and breath begins to shudder

gulls hang in still air,
their wings held like unsaid prayers
trembling mid-skyline
as the deep pulls something dark
from beneath the continent

currents thread the deep—
fibers of salt-slick muscle
braid into a swell,
tension mounting in the bones
of horizon’s aching curve

the wind bites its lip
as silence turns concave—bent
like a pregnant pause
before the ocean screams loud
through the lung of every wave

then it begins: roar—
a crescendo of water
dragging sky to mouth,
the world leans toward the breaking
and forgets how to exhale

she crashes inward,
not on rock, but into time—
the past, ripped open,
every drowned name surfacing
on the throat of spitting foam

Edited just for WCS


a hush of sea foam
licks the throat of quiet stone—
Soft as a whisper,
moonlight tightens silver threads
breath begins to lose its shape

gulls hang in still air,
wings shaped by broken silence
midway through a cry—
the deep pulls its heavy hand
from beneath the sleeping shelf

currents thread the dark,
salt sinew in ocean’s fist
tensing into swell—
the bones of horizon groan
under pressure not yet born

the wind bites its lip,
silence curves into a gasp
held just before birth—
every wave in her chest
claws to be the first to scream

then it begins: roar—
crescendo without name
dragging sky to mouth,
the world leans into the break
and forgets to close its eyes

she crashes inward,
not on rock but memory—
time’s doors torn open,
names she swallowed long ago
rise inside her salted foam

 

[Voboy]

Morning's beauty shines
Crystal-bright through the green leaves:
Mingled coffee-steam.
A shimmer in the sky, though,
Calls sticky afternoon heat.

 

[AlinaX]

between peaks and moors
the suffocation of heat
strips all enjoyment
I pause now by the wayside
in hope of banishing sleep

 

[Angeline]

Sleep is a gamble:
don't bet on oblivion.
Close your eyes and hope
to dream your heart's desire
and not reckon with demons.

 

[WCSGarland]

_Land attempts control,
fucking it up entirely,
Chain of survival,
is broken, bleeds internal,
desperation evident.

Heroic attempts,
skitter across the pages,
bring false hopes to all,
though the final breath is drawn,
his bruising strokes go on.

the battered and bruised,
recognizable no more,
is now fodder for,
pathological exam,
to determine cause of death.

I was just messing about... not being critical of your offerings. Honest.

 

[_Land]

I was just messing about... not being critical of your offerings. Honest.

I did not take offense, but I have a wicked sense of humor. So I was just having some fun back , . Also I wrote that live last night and didn't properly count the syllables...

I don't mind a little poetic license but that was honestly a little bit too far out of form and editing and correcting is always a healthy habit for us poets.....

I actually enjoyed using forms because it forces us to rethink how to relay the imagery and the metaphor in a way that we normally wouldn't.

It's why I spend time tankaring around here

 

[AoiEndo]

So if I were to write this in traditional tanka form which is where this actually started before I transitioned because I wasn't happy with the flow........ Most of the readers that come across my poetry read English.....

They would not appreciate it in the same way that somebody who is familiar with the Japanese format of tanka would.

Here is the original prior to editing it to a more Western format

Silk-white morning haze
clings to my breathless edges—
you were once the light
breaking through my shaded roots,
orchid bloom before the thaw.


Purple wind arrives,
curling past the paper screen—
my sleeve hides nothing.
Even in your absence now,
orchid scent betrays my blush.


Dawn's first hush still burns—
your hand slipped beneath my shade,
fingertips of sun.
Summer left its breath in me,
orchid flushed and unaware.

Salt wind, morning tide—
one petal clings to my lips
long after you’ve gone.
Orchid weeps in silent drops,
dew or sorrow—who can tell?


Crimson dusk dissolves,
curling like steam from my skin—
no more dreams to hold.
Yet this orchid lifts its face,
still reaching the empty dusk.


This will probably feel more correct to you


_Land

Yes...!! I like it very much! Not better, because you write beautifully...but this is how Tanka is written in Japan

 

[AoiEndo]

I'm so glad you found us! and thanks for reaching out-- I really had no idea how popular the Tanka is modern-day.

it's just so romantic... in the west, a girl is lucky if she gets a text message

I hope you will also share some of your poetry as well!

Oh, I don't know if I should...I am not a poet! And sorry if I am have been busy...

 

[AoiEndo]

*Amateras dies
like fireflies losing night joy,
Sky sings like your voice,
To my soul, there is only
vibrations, you dying in me

*This is the Sun Goddess in Japanese culture. But when you write in English it is "Amaterasu". In Japan, the "su" is soft, almost unpronounced. If you write in English there will be 5 beats, but in Japanese way, there are only 4.