Cantos 2019

Cantos

A Literary and Arts Journal Missouri Baptist University 2019

Cantos A Literary and Arts Journal EDITOR John J. Han ASSISTANT EDITORS Mason Arledge Grace E. Green Ethan King EDITORIAL CONSULTANTS Ben Moeller-Gaa C. Clark Triplett COVER ART COVER DESIGN Carol Sue Horstman Jenny Sinamon

TECHNICAL SUPPORT Coral Christopher

WEBMASTER Katlyn Moncada

Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal is published every summer by the Department of English at Missouri Baptist University. Its goal is to provide creative writers and artists with a venue for self-expression and to cultivate aesthetic sensibility among scholars and students. The views expressed in this publication are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent those of Missouri Baptist University. Compensation for contributions is one copy of Cantos, and copyrights revert to authors and artists upon publication.

SUBMISSIONS: Cantos welcomes submissions from the students, faculty, staff, alumni, and friends of Missouri Baptist University. Send previously unpublished poems, short fiction, excerpts from a novel in progress, and nonfiction as e-mail attachments (Microsoft Word format) to the editor, John J. Han, at john.han@mobap.edu by March 15. Send previously unpublished artwork, including haiga (illustrated haiku), as an email attachment to the editor, John J. Han, at hanjn7@gmail.com by the same date. For more details, read the submission guidelines on the last page of this issue.

SUBSCRIPTIONS & BOOKS FOR REVIEW: Cantos subscriptions, renewals, address

changes, and books for review should be mailed to John J. Han, Editor of Cantos, Missouri Baptist University, One College Park Drive, St. Louis, MO 63141. Phone: (314) 392-2311/Fax: (314) 434-7596. Subscription rate for both individuals and institutions: $8 per issue purchased at MBU and $10 per mail-ordered issue.

ISSN 2327-3526 (print) ISSN 2327-3534 (online) Volume 25—2019 https://www.mobap.edu/about-mbu/publications/cantos/

CONTENTS Poetry 4 5 9 13 15 16 17 18 19 20 24 26 28 30

“Donkey Corn” and “Remains of a Cookout” “Requiem” and other poems “Bed of Nails” and other poems Photo poems “Ginkgo” and “Beebe, Arkansas, December 31, 2011” “To a Lighthouse” Haiku and Senryu Haiku “Incorporeal for Nothing” “The Bees” and other poems “Uncle’s Potato Patch” and other poems “No Returning to the Nest” and other poems “World’s Top Model” and Other Poems “A confused goose in a puddle” and other haiga

Harding Stedler John Zheng James Fowler M.J. Becco Paulette Guerin James Maxfield Bryan Rickert Ben Moeller-Gaa Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah Thomas B. Richardson Akerke Boltabekova Pat Durmon Destiney Sharkey Donald W. Horstman

35-51 FEATURED POET: Todd Sukany 52 53 56 57 60 64 67 70 72

“Shakespeare’s Man of Sorrows” and other haiga “Lost Poem” and other poems Haiku “Home Town” and other poems “The Squirrel’s Nest” and other poems “The Unveiling” and other poems “A Heavy Snow Stills Life” and other poems “Japan, the Country of Military Precision” “I Would Rather Take a Ferry”

Carol Sue Horstman Raymond Kirk Lori Becherer Anna Roberts Wells Terrie Jacks Billy Adams Faye Adams John J. Han John J. Han

“Dad’s House” “Him” (a short story) “When Yellow Meets White” (a play) A Short Life, a Big Presence: Higuchi Sites in Tokyo

Paula Nunning Jo A. Baldwin Emily Q. Lu John J. Han

Prose 79 81 83 95

On Writing Creatively 103 110 116 118

Haiku Thinking & Haiku Mechanics (a workshop) Ten Things to Consider When Considering a Chapbook How I Write a Poem Kigo Usage in Haiku

Ben Moeller-Gaa Ben Moeller-Gaa Terrie Jacks Bryan Rickert

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Visual Art by Grace E. White 7 11 12 18 19 23 25 27 51 56 69 117 119

“Red Wolf Watching Over Pups, Endangered Wolf Sanctuary, MO” “Winter Snowshoe, Rocky Mountain National Park, CO” “Winter Waterfall, Rocky Mountain National Park, CO” “Lost Valley Trail, MO” “Tree Stump, Jasper, AR” “Katy Trail, MO” “Horseshoe Canyon Ranch, Jasper, AR” (1) “Horseshoe Canyon Ranch, Jasper, AR” (2) “Overlook, Rocky Mountain National Park, CO” “Buffalo River, AR” “Rocky Mountain National Park, CO” (1) “Pere Marquette Fall, IL” “Rocky Mountain National Park, CO” (2)

Visual Art by John J. Han 94

“Ready to Gallop, Onomichi, Japan”

120

Notes on Contributors

125

Submission Guidelines

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Poetry

“Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.”

—Plutarch (c. 46-120) “When we hear the warbling of the mountain thrush in the blossoms or the voice of the frog in the water, we know every living has its song.”

—Ki no Tsurayuki (ca. 868-945) “You can observe a lot by just watching.”

—Yogi Berra (1925-2015)

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Two Poems Harding Stedler Donkey Corn Warren straddled Nellie the mule between eight rows of corn on my dad’s farm and six on the neighbor’s.

It was what I called my sonnet patch.

Nellie stopped to nibble ripe ears nearly every step of the way and brayed her approval of the sweetness of each ear.

As September ripened and the silks turned black, we knew that harvest was just around the corner, minus a few kernels of donkey corn.

The ride between the stanzas was an autumn ritual.

The bonfire we built at the end of the patch lit up the night sky as Nellie slept soundly beside the embers.

Remains of a Cookout Nobody sits at the picnic table in the shady glen although the embers smolder and the aroma of bacon fills the air.

I want to be the picnicker who invades this space to feast on the shadows of those now gone.

I want to stoke what’s left of embers and to be a camper of one as darkness consumes the sunset.

5

“Requiem� and Other Poems John Zheng Requiem for Liu Xiaobo, the Nobel Peace Prize Laureate (1955-2017) morning waves each a white wreath of mourning morning waves each a note of the requiem morning waves each a sound of a dream morning waves each a wing of a gull morning waves each a rhythm of sunshine morning waves each a roll of the sea morning waves each a message from heaven morning waves each a poem to his death

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Five Images of Girls one-child family a girl plays dollhouse by herself orphanage night a girl holds a doll in her arms first spring day a swinging girl’s laughter over the fence harvest moon a girl peels an orange by the window before J. Lo sings young girls squeal in excitement

Walking in a Town in the Mississippi Delta 1 evening walk alone and along with autumn breeze 2 sidewalking a long path of stillness against shrill cicadas 3 evening stroll step by step into streetlights 4 lap-walking the red moon now changes into the orange one 5 jogging at dusk the year’s end not far away 6 empty walking trail fallen oak leaves shuffling along

7

Hiking through Rain in Manoa Manoa sky dark clouds float as if under feet morning hiking wet shoes squelch in pattering rain wind over ridge all our umbrellas blown inside out red mud trail each step deeper and heavier on top of the ridge resting on the rock chiseled with “Forget” “What shall we forget?” harbor in the distance or this rain? at the trailhead the rainbow a welcome arch

Grace E. Green, “Red Wolf Watching Over Pups, Endangered Wolf Sanctuary, MO”

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Impressions: Winter in the Mississippi Delta snowy night porch lights along the street shimmering jack-o-lanterns … whistling wind a chugging train blows its horn across the flatland … windy morning fallen snow blown off trees glitters the sky … chirping cardinals sunlight thaws out on the frosty window … snow-covered street the mailman’s footsteps crunch closer … reading by fire warmth creeps from fingers to the body … waking from dream I pull my feet back under the quilt

9

“Bed of Nails” and Other Poems James Fowler Bed of Nails First sleep past, you wake to the thousand pricks through the memory foam. Your worries are swarming, the chronic what-ifs that make the future a pointed dread, a botched tattoo.

All that day-at-a-time philosophy fails you, flimsy fortune-cookie wisdom.

Didn’t people used to light candles and sit propped doing useful things until second sleep came over them?

But you don’t want 4 a.m. reruns, or news, especially news, and if you check email, your day begins.

So you toss, shifting pressure points, wishing this could work like acupuncture, wishing you had that roasting saint’s aplomb. No, you’re the other one, human target appealing to heaven, with archers at your command if you could get the orders straight.

Charms Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit said on waking, and something good would come mid-month.

That was family tradition.

Decades later he learns that British soldiers starting their month trusted rabbits or, better, white rabbits to ward off Nazi and Nipponese metal.

When the Red Queen rages, Off with their heads!

Pound them to pancakes!

Pepper them with flak! and even white rabbits quake in their waistcoats, how needful to conjure a disembodied grin, a chimerical defuser, It’s all her fancy, that.

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Courage

Weeding

When young he thought it what it took to face diving boards and bullies.

You’ve let it go too long, to seed as they say, and now must sweat to aid the desired growth.

Then, toy gun in hand, he conceived glory, till the real thing left him doggo in foxholes, neither coward nor hero.

Back home, he found nerve for the common plunge and three fast dependents.

A union fought his fights, though one prolonged strike tapped that final ounce before management blinked.

Now pensioned and widowed, his sons monthly calls from some far country, he digs deep to plant feet on floorboards, scrape the nightly stubble; taxes his wherewithal to butter the toast.

A few shallow invaders give way readily, their purchase on the soil a lackadaisical attachment.

Others grip more stubbornly, snapping at the surface to spring anew unless spaded up resolutely.

Snaking through the melee, prickly vines puncture whatever exposed tenderness brushes against them.

They’re a hydra of latent violence, and you are tempted to take a tiller to the whole bed.

A shame, though, to extirpate all alike, however intertwined the roots.

This is your garden, your cultivated plot.

It takes concerted effort, like marriage, like anything meant to reach fruition.

11

Inertia The Adriatic will have to keep waving from afar. Your passport still unrenewed, you opt instead for a weekend in Cleveland.

It’s grown on you over the years.

When young, you thought nothing of a 500-mile road trip to see a favorite band.

Put out with a job, you’d suddenly quit without the least notion where your next income would materialize.

You actually liked the uncertainty, the way you enjoyed dangling legs off a cliff, or the blindest of dates.

Gradually, though, settling forces have turned your current occupation into a career, your divorced state into a life choice.

You prefer streaming to movie theaters, get all you restaurant meals delivered.

Your easy chair has an orthotic fit.

The notion that most things are too much trouble has overtaken you like some compelling practical philosophy.

You are the stone with a moss coat, listening only to classic rock, wishing your needy lawn a pebble garden.

Lying facedown, you feel an ache in your lower back, wait for it to insist before bothering to turn on your side.

Grace E. Green, “Winter Snowshoe, Rocky Mountain National Park, CO”

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The Stuff of Minor Pathos Nothing so dramatic as a wrenching hospital farewell capped with a salty kiss.

These other things pass before you know.

We may never see school chums again, but tell ourselves it’s possible, and carry them with us in suspension.

Or we take once-in-a-lifetime trips to Dubrovnik, the Solomon Islands, and cherish the singularity.

These other things are closer to home: a favorite bookstore, a restaurant where you always order the stroganoff.

The last time comes, and you’re none the wiser. Your parting nod simply assumes a phantom next time.

That friendly chat with your uncle only gains poignance after the fact.

Who knew his heart had grown so large?

And the lake: it moves without notice, at least beyond your reach, finally shelved as you are in some warehouse for the decrepit. You’ve tied your last shoe, whistled your last tune a year and change before your last breath.

Grace E. Green, “Winter Waterfall, Rocky Mountain National Park, CO”

13

Photo Poems M.J. Becco

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Two Poems Paulette Guerin Ginkgo Through rain-thrash and wind-sear, the stems cling to each limb.

After other trees have metamorphosed green to gold, red to brown, stems rattle in the dawn.

The ginkgo waits then lets go.

Brief burst of yellow.

Beebe, Arkansas, December 31, 2011 A thousand blackbirds dropped from the sky. Gloved scientists took pictures, bagged a few corpses bloody from impact. Residents spent the day scooping the rest from fields into wheelbarrows, the stiff bodies lighter in the last light, airy as foam, like chaff for wind to lift back to flight.

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To a Lighthouse (an ode)

James Maxfield Dark, when spent night creeps on toward light of day promenading its soft path east to west— Dawn, when rising sun first breaks with rays that peer upon this lighthouse now at rest, by small degrees perceives the slightest flush touching electric—tinglings on the arms; a sultry morning breeze catches in throats of trees while the clutch of your laughter at first blush echoes by minute, by hour . . . for years warms where the white bobbing gulls becalm these Attic seas.

Low the day stretches on toward dusk and leers stealing upon dim-day hours as a sprite or a shadow dissolves, then reappears diffused by rocks along the edge of night.

Then Lighthouse spreads her incremental flow, darkness slouches toward doom, its twilit tombs begin to lose ground to shifting tides . . . Stay! Confess!

Does this beacon extend the day or slow and grow in gloom obscured as Evening combs out in long strokes beams of intermittent blindness?

Yet twilight does advance both nights and days, shimmering shafts scatter across these stones, the redress of years gathers still, displays and gives way to footpaths littered by bones.

You are as a lighthouse signal warning elusive memories wrenched from a dream, drowned by darkness, adorned by day; and when you came, streams of white light flashed skyward; the blinking of an iris with incandescent gleam illuminates, draws the pallid moth to your flame.

17

Haiku and Senryu Bryan Rickert Sunday rain thunder punctuates the sermon

first pitch caught in foxgloves

dry summer ants up and down the rain chain

dog days the only cloud going nowhere

black smoke from a burning tire protest night

girders in the rain pigeons leap off then return

departure a thousand waves from the sycamore

day moon across the winter sky a hawk’s white breast

Thanksgiving three generations add a pinch

burnt out house the doves making it a home

autumn rain the origami of laundry

strangers in line coming through the fog the bus’s glow

plucking a headless chicken Bastille Day

humid night a fly punctuates the reading lamp

children’s garden the matted carpet of blossoms

hunter’s moon easing into the pines the coyote’s tracks

line of ants only one stops to look back

snowmelt the blossoming of potholes

loosening up the pitcher knuckles a wad of gum

hospital waiting a well-worn path to the window

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Haiku Ben Moeller-Gaa spring freeze the ease of the knife through braunschweiger reunion never learning her new name where the river widens the gulf between us carried in with the instruments the clatter of rain spring afternoon the swirling clouds in my coffee morning breeze nothing today but today

Grace E. Green, “Lost Valley Trail, MO�

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Incorporeal for Nothing Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah She removes the cultural divided curtains from the doors and the windows, and the dyslipidemia, hypertension, and obesity are clear, hanging on the walls. The curator explains himself to the viewers and the buyers.

The client is satisfied with my smile.

I look at my face in a mirror, one of the piece, it is the wind, acid smell, where land sits atop a polluted landfill, the folk teller further deepens the dig with his new chasm from Africa and Asia.

You show us how to drain toilets into Mitch Creek from Sunday downstream.

You measure the bulkhead between your left and right after holding your thinking with bulldog clips.

Such a transport I take to work under poor circumstances must prove my strength out of huffing for a capital room upstairs.

Grace E. Green, “Tree Stump, Jasper, AR�

20

“The Bees” and Other Poems Thomas B. Richardson The Bees Two good boys, the kind parents show off in polite company: Yes, ma’am, all A’s.

I’ll see you Sunday, sir.

Good boys could roam Mom and Dad’s college campus after school, raid vending machines, explore science labs.

They could wield Wiffle bats in search of green space.

But that day the ballgame yielded to buzzing from dusky chapel stairs.

Curiosity found a swarm: clouds of black and gold blimps, floating, plump and unfazed by our presence— bumblebees don’t sting.

We exchanged cautious glances, but what’s a boy to do but swing?

After all, they just hovered there, our eyes trained to pounce on hanging curves.

I sent the first one spiraling in a puff of pollen.

My friend followed, pelting bee after bee off the back brick wall.

We traded cuts and sides of the plate— switch hitters like Chipper— until the minute’s frenzy left us with no more targets.

We surveyed our destruction: hundreds sacrificed at chapel door.

We told. His mom, my dad.

We may have cried.

We wanted to go to The Hague.

Instead, we were sentenced to growing up.

21 I read this morning that bee populations are dwindling.

Continuing its rise, though?

The population of good boys.

The ER Staff Listens to My Heart and Me I tell them it is a flutter (because that’s what I hear on TV), but it’s less Monarch, more bee that swarms before death—then leaves.

Or maybe my chest is an elevator shaft with a car packed full of children who press each button to see the lights, hear the dings until the cable snaps and they plummet.

My fear pushes the first beads of sweat out and I’ve stepped from the shower onto an electric bathmat, where I feel the surge in each hair in my pits and around my nipples.

I explain that I get how the astronauts feel when they drift, weightless, and look down at home, knowing some bad math here, the pull of the wrong lever there pushes them into eternal orbit.

But mostly, I say, I know what it’s like to be lonely— that when the end comes, we search our hearts only to find each chamber empty.

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American Education (a pantoum) To teach is to imagine a classroom scattered with bodies— mouths twisted, chests full of holes— and go on rambling about poetry.

A classroom scattered with bodies too young to enter a warzone goes on rambling about poetry and fights death with flowers.

Though too young, they enter a warzone, wrestling with meter and metaphor, fighting our deaths with flowers, and planting beauty in neat rows.

Children wrestle with meter and metaphor, smiles twisting, their chests full of holes for planting beauty in neat rows.

To teach is to be able to imagine.

Seismology I want to build a poem from an earthquake.

I would start with the tremors under toes and the spastic ripples in a teacup.

Then maybe my speaker would shout to his wife that this is the big one as they ran for cover under their antique dinette.

I’d have to fill the middle section with the requisite sounds— some rumbles and rattles, crashes and screams— as the bookshelves unfastened themselves from their studs.

As they waited out the furious convulsions, my couple would conjure the conceit—some philosophy on fixedness or the fault lines of the heart.

Peace would come and they could sweep up the rubble and patch their fragmented selves.

But I’ve never been in an earthquake.

I don’t know the subconscious routines, the preventive feng shui born from a house set jelly-legged by the whims of rocks.

I have been able to trust my steps, and walk in straight lines, barefoot on calm soil.

For that I sit blank-paged, praying to the floor until it opens up and swallows me whole.

23

To My Wife, My Love, Who Brought Home Lite Mayo It’s the little things, you say, and you draw me to you, touch our once-straight edges, softened. You press your ear to my heart, which has had its episodes.

You lead me to the nursery, where our son snores under soft crochet.

And you tell me you love me, that we vowed old age.

But when I slice the cap off a ripe heirloom and leave a tender trail of red with each gushing stroke on worn butcher block, I cannot help but think that we deserve everything in its fullest.

Let this be my apology, then, for the thick layers I will paint on this bread and on the walls of our hearts.

Grace E. Green, “Katy Trail, MO”

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“Uncle’s Potato Patch” and Other Poems Akerke Boltabekova Uncle’s Potato Patch As the balmy rays of the sun touch my face, the smell of boiling milk wakes me up— my favorite summer has come.

As I enjoy hot milk mixed with bread, I beg my uncle to take me to the Potato Patch with my sleepy cousin.

He says “fine” under his thick milk-stained mustache.

The sun walks with us, the wheels of my uncle’s cart maintain a productive conversation with bleating sheep in the distance.

Finally, we reach the place I’ve been longing for— the land without trees and shades the land where everything is taken by the sun.

My uncle digs the earth and pairs us with two bags of potatoes.

Who knew that potato grows from potato?

I raise my hands to the blue sky to yell my victory of the first row, but a few more rows later my cousin is ten steps ahead of me.

When the last potato is laid in the earth I lie in the cart that rocks me into dream.

25

The Blue River The river flows over me and washes my body and mind with its blueness, converting me into a blue sky where I loosen all my senses to catch my muse.

Quest in the Desert The sand allures me, trying to drag my legs each time when I move a foot forward.

I yell and yell, begging the sand to let me go, but it drags me even harder.

I stop yelling and find a new feeling about the sand as welcome as a mother’s arms.

It wants me to stay and grow into a big desert poplar.

Grace E. Green, “Horseshoe Canyon Ranch, Jasper, AR” (1)

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“No Returning to the Nest” and Other Poems Pat Durmon No Returning to the Nest Thunder crumples the sky.

Instead of kicking you out on a rainy day, they dump you in a dorm, another name for collegiate orphanage.

It hits you slowly like a river climbs a bank. You catch yourself holding your breath. The caw of a crow comes close to the feeling.

You go through the motions of attending classes, but your heart leans east as you wait for a blue sky and a dove with an olive branch.

Scent of Smoke While driving north, I come upon charred fields— smoke and steam rising in the mid-day sun like a dawn mist hanging over a river.

The scorch of wheat stubble drenches the highway air.

Unlike encounters with wafts of skunk, I roll windows down and lean into the fragrance.

All evening, I hold the scent in my memory. It connects me to my distant past— father firing-off the ditch bank, mother scratching the earth with a rake.

27

In Bible Study A resident in the nursing home fumbles to locate the book of Luke.

Next, she promptly volunteers to read verses aloud.

A blind woman, listening with her heart, hears the words and says, So Jesus, the Savior, did not come to earth to heal sick folks like us.

Those despairing lepers actually distracted Him from His main mission. Also true of the woman who touched the hem of His robe. Even the centurion….

Then the woman to my left, hard-of-hearing, shouts— But those with infirmities were the very ones Jesus needed.

He tried to show common man He was who He said He was.

After being in the presence of Christ, they were clean, different, better.

You know, exactly like we are when we spend time at His feet and in the Word.

As if mute, not one person speaks.

Grace E. Green, “Horseshoe Canyon Ranch, Jasper, AR” (2)

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“World’s Top Model” and Other Poems Destiney Sharkey World’s Top Model Such beauty must bring danger like a hungry bear, But its freckles soften hearts.

A poem’s favorite subject, The flower does not disappoint As it flexes its soft lavender blush.

Perfect as it poses for the photo.

Cold Feet Upon my last trip to Gulfport, I let the sun play on my lap.

Sand hugged my toes At the beach where we used to Grill jumbo hotdogs and down water.

Granny was young-faced as always.

Her gray eyes twinkled With every word of welcome.

The kitchen table insisted we join To devour the Cajun boil after partying with the water.

This had to be the highlight.

I held my stomach, recited a prayer of thanks, and was reminded of my cold, wet feet.

Still, ecstatic.

29

Insanity Tap… tap… tap.

Like the droplets from a faucet.

Like the uncertain moves of the tap shoes.

Tap… tap… tap.

It must be in the attic from the distance.

From all the horror movies, can one blame me for my reluctance?

I follow the tap… tap… tap.

Hoping it leads not to a trap.

Can you kill a ghost with just a bat?

Tap… tap… tap.

Perhaps in need of an army.

I float the steps descending into the new unknown; now the only thing louder than the taps is my heartbeat.

Tap… tap.

It gets slower as if it knows I am sinking lower.

There should be no reason for it, no reason at all for that routine down there!

Tap… tap.

This is it, Sweat drowns my fingers, I think I can feel the adrenaline about to surge.

The door gives in to a firm push, And I cannot believe my sight.

Oxygen neglecting my body with a rush.

Tap… tap.

Now that I witness the cause of the tap, I can hold a bit of peace.

I can go back upstairs to grab a trap for the crazed rat.

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“A confused goose in a puddle” and Other Haiga Donald W. Horstman

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Featured Poet

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Todd Sukany

Todd Sukany, a Pushcart nominee, lives in Pleasant Hope, Missouri, with his wife of over 37 years. He holds degrees from Southwest Baptist University and Southeast Missouri State University. Sukany currently serves as an instructor of English at Southwest Baptist University. His work has appeared in Ancient Paths, Cantos, Cave Region Review, Intégrité: A Faith and Learning Journal, and The Ekphrastic Review. Sukany co-authored a book of poetry, The First Book of Mirrors, with Raymond Kirk. A native of Michigan, Sukany stays busy running, playing music, loving three children, their spouses, four grandchildren, and caring for six rescue dogs and one ancient cat. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (In his own words) “Sukany. Hit the showers.”

Famous last words of my freshman high school basketball tryout. The grueling workout reached its climax and the players lined up at the free-throw line. “Make a free throw then take a shower.” Player after player either sunk a basket or headed to the end of the line to try again.

After a brief look into eternity, every player, but two, had showered and headed to their ride home before these famous, last, words were spoken.

As with all important issues of maturity, I enter the game late. Poetry came into my life as graciously (and as welcome) as an airball in the waning seconds of a pivotal fourth quarter.

But I am off the bench and seeing action.

Each day fills itself with “stuff”—man-to-man defense, zone coverage, or its combination called “junk.” Each day, I try to slow down; I try to see some of this traveling and motion as concrete detail.

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Since I clearly have a face for radio, a chiseled, god-like physique, and the strength of a third-string linguine noodle, running has become the sport that supports extended observation.

Long runs, of multiple hours, offer opportunities for slowing down and shadowing nature, social injustice, political senselessness, and issues of faith. Conquering a thirty-five-plus mile “run” takes planning and requires the assistance of others.

One must slow down. Feeling good at the beginning of a seven-hour trek is easy.

Studying survival techniques cannot be underestimated—good openings, strong titles, stores of hydration and nutrition for the middle miles, pressing into the dilemma.

The assistance of others is where the shoe meets the running surface, the feet size the soul. Hearing the testimony of others, failures and successes, helps an ultra-runner push past “the wall,” the point when the body screams “who thought this was a good idea . . . ever” and shuts down. Like when a publisher says bluntly, “Thanks for sharing your poetry. I’m going to pass on using any.” Like when an acceptance letter contains a check. The cloud of witnesses surrounding us offers refreshment, encouragement, and a sympathetic shoulder—one close enough to whisper some critique-of-form into our ear.

“Sukany, hit the showers” still rings in my ears after nearly fifty years. The challenge remains to stand in the driveway, set my feet at the line, bounce the ball three times, point my elbow, and thank God I can “run like this all day,” even if it is after a “brick” off the front of the rim, or a blesséd “nothing but net.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ After Reading Li Po’s “Confessional” I study the masters to find their craft teased into art and, often, beyond.

Lines of words follow lines of words but transcend speech, enter anthologies.

And then a deeper search reveals their mortality, sometimes failure, and other times, the very thing I see in the mirror.

Majestic trees twist in wind and shear in storm.

—Intégrité Fall 2012

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Blocking Football at Godfather’s Pizza Your husband forgets his mission to syrup his ice cream and now stands, tilting his dish. In this restaurant another public display of forgetfulness scores your face in deep bitterness. Once again you hold hands back to his chair, using the baby steps your children outgrew forty years ago. Your faded green dress, Sunday best, can't hide the frown. As I watch, He wants me to tell you, Thanks.

—Ancient Paths Fall 2012 Christmas Morning Mother, I’ve hung a wreath of yellowed flowers from your August bed.

Off to your right, yes, just beyond your left ear, more of those berries, red like cardinals. The kids are fine but left me alone to my memories this morning.

The spruce above stands wet, snowy, and silent-her nest empty.

—The Ekphrastic Review July 2017 Artwork: “The Cemetery” Carl Fredrik Hill, Swedish painter (1849-1911) Oil on canvas

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Coming of Light in Composition (“Sons and Daughters,” a painting by Ivan Fortushniak) Just before I teach the sons and daughters, I kneel, hope to connect, feel your blessing, your strength and your words appoint empty clay.

There’s no line behind you, Master. In fact, a world sits drowsy to disaster: a plane plummets at an awkward angle.

Before I drop this brush for the day, take two steps back, I drown a sable with white and swab another line of reflection.

Light needs weight—can’t be an exact center or too close to the forefront—it’s best pressed to backgrounds but still appears on your face.

—Calvin College Spr 2014

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Name-Brand Originally, crayons were drawn from the earth, always a mixed medium, and inconsistent in color.

Not one of them complained they weren’t exactly like a brother or sister, they were content to be unique. They were complete, even though not wrapped in paper, and not hyphenated or labeled as reds, yellows, browns, blacks, whites.

—Cave Region Review 2017 Paint Using just Favorite Color Decide the city shot trumps a landscape. Stand to the left of center as far as you can go.

Let your eyes peer through tall buildings into a horizon you’ve never actually seen. The sun is probably there. Notice the masses of faces surrounding you in the same way.

Swirl your brush into your favorite color and slowly cover all the white spaces.

—Tuck Magazine 28 Mar 2018

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If I Were Elected President, I would have to run.

—The Bleeding Typewriter 2016 Simple Solution The Fountain of Life cannot be found for yourself, it’s a gift offered another.

With it, the guilty will forever be young, youthful as the first scent of offense.

—Intégrité 2016 and The First Book of Mirrors On the Blind Side (A Grasshopper Thinks Aloud) so e.e. thinks he knows me well enough to tell my comings and my goings still looks like jumbles lept on a speechless page —The First Book of Mirrors

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Communion I find an empty altar and kneel there to die. I am not surrounded by flickers of light, wax drips, or holy water. Silence. Silence.

Silence. I hear my heart cry out, “Oh, to die is gain” and an echo return, “Go. And live.”

—Intégrité 2016 Note in the First Church of Benton’s Offering Plate Dear Pastor: I am offended. In your sermon last month, you preached about Jesus and the fig tree. I assure you that, according to my ex-husbands, God rest their souls, the Lord of this earth never cursed under, around, or by any fig tree.

I understand that you went to divinity school and learned about parables and casseroles but here in these beautiful Ozark mountains, we always speak with proper reverence for the bible and all it contains.

I am sure that the Bethany you mentioned in that sermon was a proper Christian lady, raised with deepest respect to the Holy One. I know that Jesus would not leave her unless he had a good reason. I assume she might have had a similar experience as I did last Easter when that oven burnt my famous, imported Puerto Rican Bacardi Añejo, rum-soaked pecan pie. I heard what you said about that incident too. Shame. Shame on you.

I expect you will make this right next month when you see me again. I will be sitting in the same place I always have, praying for the mountain of your soul.

Sincerely, Sister Mary Elizabeth Smith-Salvador-Yeshov

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Gossip Mill I don’t believe in gossip.

Certainly not like Trudy, that tramp, stepping out with the newcomer.

You know what I’m saying.

The newcomer with the shiny wax job on the car fenders and other places I’m sure. I never go to those places anyway. I am at prayer meeting, yes, the Tuesday morning one at Brenda’s Home-Cooked Eats, My, my. I love those eggs over-easy, bacon edges just crispy. Crispy.

Reminds me of Eddie’s hair that one time he was trying to impress the entire cheerleading squad. He smelled like dead leaves for three days. Three days, that’s how long Jesus was in the tomb, you know, I believe He was paying for the sins of folks who never darken the doors of a church, never meet for prayer with the rest of the godly ones. Surely, three days paying for the sin of every gossip.

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what if

Cloning Oneself

you grew up in a God-fearing home around the time of Jesus

My poem is more than an assignment— more than some requirement for a class— not just saying hello in a hallway as some

had loving parents who encouraged you shared with you their belief you had a special place in the Kingdom fulfilment in the words on the scrolls smiled as you touched Jesus hand on his shoulder, fingers pinching his nose, pushing him under the dirty Jordan, or smiled as you followed him three years kept the money bag, drawing close enough to him to offer a kiss

random duty that will return nothing. If we work together—you from your computer and I from mine—a life exchange may happen.

Our sharing may not produce identical twins for sure—but our two worlds can brush against each other—not like two planets whose gravitational pull makes tides, strands sea creatures—more like a warm dessert shared before an open fire— steaming hot chocolate, golden graham crackers, and drippy marshmallows.

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Making Poems I didn’t start out bitter, more curious. The revision process is as much a mystery

ended in blinding sterile light.

You fail to recite the MFA experiences when Donald Hall or that Stafford dude

as your mystical affection for the Muse.

You want us to believe you sit at a desk, hovering where a chair should be,

sat next to you during the Writer’s Retreat luncheon, the one where no one was allowed to talk, and one poet held your hand

a spinny one with rubber wheels.

Your writing surface is mahogany stained the deepest, three-d warmth

as the other held your poems and prayed more for you than their meal, until shhhh’d by god-knows-who (or whom

like a shaft of sunlight blazoned between buildings on a blustery Thanksgiving-era walk.

since you graduated just after your Pushcart announcement). Nope.

From that aura, you channel the ages allthewhile neglecting to mention your mother and father,

I could go on but for now suffice it, bless, it, shoosh it,

literary giants themselves, who read you metered verse the ten months before your womb experience

brandish it, ’cuz I’m still just curious and I ain’t bitter none.

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A Response to that H.W.J.P. Poem Please, not another poem to transform my behavior.

I must park closest to the building to reflect my importance.

Straddling my Yukon at the farthest outside marker of the parking space speaks to significance.

I see restricted parking signs “Reserved for Assistant Important Person” “Disabled…Crippled…Handicapped…Pregnant Persons” as validating my old nature.

I beg you then, not another agnostical, acronymic poem ’cuz in the days of Avis Rent-a-Donkey, Jesus walked.

Choking on Exhaustion “Call the roller of big cigars” —Wallace Stevens . . . is only slightly worse than my feet are killing me. That moment when sleep is interrupted by ten tangy ten toes sneaking back the covers wrapped so homely around the neck. That moment when “her horny feet protrude” from their wollen covers. That moment when the lights come on and the ceiling fan whirs in horror as a silent witness.

46 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Poem for Martin Richard We all want the world to be nice, a place to gather with mom and sister, hug dad after his four-hour marathon. We all want to throw our hands in the air and yell at the top of our lungs, sing an anthem with a hand over the heart, wave flags, hold up signs, scribbled marks intimate as family dinner talk. We all want to believe we are faster than the winners and, so that is why it hurts to be shown all is illusion.

During Dinner Conversation at Pizza Hut Mr. Kooser handed me a dog treat, discovered in a dark pocket of his beige blazer.

I took it home and put it beside the laptop.

It’s just a biscuit, but Ted Kooser gave it to me.

I want to frame it with a poem, but I feed it to the dog; she won’t care that it’s stale or a regift.

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If I Had To (an ekphrastic poem) If I made a painting of Jesus, He wouldn’t be dead in it.

He wouldn’t even be on a cross, hands level with His head or, better yet, parallel to His briar crown under some message carved on stone in a script other than English.

His hands wouldn’t be poked through with some dark paint, perfectly brushed to invoke a nail, holding His body weight.

His lower torso wouldn't be neatly wrapped in a white cloth, twisted like a turban.

He wouldn’t have arms like knotted ropes and muscular legs of a distance runner.

His eye would not be glazed, staring up into the clouds, droopy, pleading.

If I had to write a poem with Jesus in it, it would still be black-and-white, but He wouldn’t be dead.

Artwork: “The Crucifixion” 1596-1600 Oil on canvas, 312 x 169 cm Museo del Prado, Madrid

Resurrection Barbie Resurrection Barbie. Resurrection, Barbie. O, come forth Barbie.

Barbie, come forth. What?

Come here, darling. Come closer.

Now, now. What? What . . . ?

You refuse to be fourth?

48 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Sin-Removing Barbie O Sin-Removing Barbie, matron saint of inclusion, sense the power in found poems. Take your permanent black marker to leave only the words you find pretty, safe, broad-minded. Abstinence: red letters are not high contrast on a white page.

I Love . . .

“What good does all Jahwe’s omniscience do him . . . ?”

—Carl Dennis, “Bibles and Driveways” Much like Peter at the trifecta grilling from Jesus, English serves us well in our attempt to maintain personal honor and Ol’ Pete’s integrity.

Peter repies, “Jesus, you know I like mint swirl, chocolate chips mixed with pecans worn as a yarmulke.”

Second time, “Jesus, you know I like Judas as my partner in ministry, especially on the long trips to the Bethany housing development.” The third time is a stinger, like reading all those poems about the failure of God to act properly in a postmodern world, or millennial or whatever generational pool fills scholarly journals these days. Jesus: “Peter, do you even click my Facebook posts?”

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Historic You never met my father’s father nor heard me share stories of him.

Oh, there are stories that burn inside me, etched, permanent, like animals carved into caves; and yet I write words to speak to you, my grandchildren’s children, poems and pages so that you can hear my voice carved inside you.

Still Waters Why must this poem be a story?

Why must it contain allusions to sheep and a shepherd who carries a rod and a wooden staff?

Why must my head be drenched in oil running off my beard and onto the mashed potatoes?

Why must I have any enemies at all? Why can’t these words report a pre-dawn run— October, the bow hunter whose headlamp beam crossed ours like shafts of feathered light with no sharp point?

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In the Neighborhood Pigeons fly overhead, dozens, making no noise except the flutter of wings cutting the breeze with a steamy rhumba.

Hummingbirds chase each other a mosh pit circling dozens of tiny plastic flowers.

Haiku Sequence concentric circles a target, bullseye for flies spider webs on trail once green blades of grass freeze solid like steel daggers break fall but break skin flights of birds return to scavenge the dry berries fuel for survival ticks upon ticks line the elastic bands of shorts suck around my legs

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Roadside Ditch All that the sun hasn’t baked into straw are the chest-high, three-leaved plants, minty green with ruddy, angry acne.

Witness Three days after the buzzardbottlefly feast, you are several oil spots, fur piles, and spare ribs.

I testify you had a spine.

Grace E. Green, “Overlook, Rocky Mountain National Park, CO”

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“Shakespeare’s Man of Sorrows” and Other Haiga Sue Carol Horstman

Shakespeare’s Man of Sorrows

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“Lost Poem” and Other Poems Raymond Kirk Lost Poem Too complex, too heavy too light, then too dark spread in all directions then ripped or torn apart.

The critics all hated it spelled it out over my page creating its own entity I could call poem rage.

It carried rhyme and meter but no traditional space I wanted it rhetorical to question its own place.

After this last critique I’m not sure what to do.

Throw the whole poem away or test the New York view.

Somewhere Behind Me

My home disappeared in an electrical storm.

Pried and ripped out of my unwilling arms.

The sounds are waning into a cascade of silence.

The sirens gone from an adrenalized violence.

I claim a victory of sorts over everything I have lost.

Relief from the shock of being thrown and tossed.

I can always rebuild.

My life is mostly intact.

The best steps are forward without looking back.

Uneven Rhythm The days have long since passed the nights cold with apathy I do not need understood only a smidge of sympathy.

I rest calmly upon my laurels underneath a kissing wreath I find myself unnerved with a grind of gritted teeth.

I cannot make rational decisions my mind constantly dismayed I would choose to stay outside If I’d relearn how to play.

I’d probably be much happier if I enjoyed mere existence but it’s hard to fight dementia and its dogma of persistence.

One day I may find an avenue where I will learn the walk that takes me on the journey where I don’t just talk, to talk.

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Haiku Lori Becherer hard freeze in the forecast cutting tulips mowing around the white clover . . . honeybees tilling father’s farm field road lilies pruning the cypress a creak in our joints summer rain field puddles fill with mallards cottonwood tufts collect on the screen cloudless sky winter wind the chatter of lupine pods ice storm a sparrow checks its footing

Grace E. Green, “Buffalo River, AR”

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“Home Town” and Other Poems Anna Roberts Wells Home Town I live in a town with painted houses, mostly white but for a few of gray or cream.

They sit have trim lawns and upright pickets.

Daily, I stroll downtown to market, and I call to the neighbors, “Mornin’, Miz Crabtree, your yard looks lovely.” and she smiles back with a hearty, “Thank you.”

“Good day, Miz Bennett. You’re a master of roses.” and she smugly admits that she is.

I return to work in my purple house on the edge of our town.

Its wide veranda arched over with sunflowers and a walkway found in a tangle of zinnias.

Late in the day, I sit on that porch, and call to the passers-by, “Evenin’, Miz Crabtree.

It’s good to see you out.”

After a quick smile and a twinkle of fingers, she scurries towards home.

“Hello, Miz Bennet. I can smell your roses from here.”

A popping jerk of her head acknowledges my comment.

I swing on the swing on my veranda; and smile to myself as I recall that I live in a town with painted houses, mostly white.

Willow A willow bends as the wind directs, The lilting swaying of her skirt, emits soft sighs of whispering cloth.

She stands content in her lacy grace, unencumbered by a pricking doubt, without so much as a single thought to what she could have be

58 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal Visiting Grandma The young girl sits beside the bed taking in the woman whose gaze is blank.

Hair like the puff of a dandelion tufts the old one’s head, her brows crawl across their ridge like dust balls.

Her face is mapped in lines, roadways of where she has been.

In her faded gown, she is propped in a cranked up bed waiting, waiting.

Her hands flutter aimlessly across the sheet.

The girl reaches out to touch and calm the bones stretched over with foxed tissue.

She speaks softly to the woman who was, but the woman who is cannot answer.

The girl rises to leave then returns to press a kiss against the dry, crinkled cheek.

Her tears are met with the old woman’s tears.

She stares at the skeleton showing beneath the skin of arms and hands, the skull so clearly defined.

Leaning close, she whispers her love, turns to the door and is gone.

Crepusculars Sleep evades in the early hours.

Walking on cat quiet feet, I creep to seek a window with an eastward view. sends a watery beam to spark the frosted grass.

The neighbor’s tabby crosses the yard as stealthily as I have walked the hall.

He looks for vole or mouse who has used this last bit of dark to find its own food.

He stops still at times, looking right and left until he slinks down preparing to pounce.

In the pale growing light, he returns the way he came a small limp body dangling from his jaws.

The red gold eastern glow now outlines the far trees in a dawn so beautiful it breaks my heart.

59 African Bride Nubile, Nubian little sister, weave your African magic basket of spells.

Brown as earth, skin glistening, tall walking, hips swaying, head high balancing the water pot.

You are dignity in your kinte cloth coming out from your painted house.

Go out into your garden to dig the yams, hoe the ngombo or lead your dowry cattle down to drink.

Your husband stands, new and watching as you pound the millet in an old stone hollow.

You are industry in your kinte cloth coming out from your painted house.

Dance with your sister women, brown breasts bouncing, pale skinned soles prancing, shell beads clacking, calling on your ancestors, singing to your children .

You are beauty in your kinte cloth coming out from your painted house.

Inner Child When the space between the thoughts and words grows long, when the steady feet and balance begin to stumble, when all that was upright begins to crumple, who then is this child with face turned to the sun, brown-rust pigtails flying, arms thrown out as she spins joyously through the meadow?

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“The Squirrel’s Nest” and Other Poems Terrie Jacks The Squirrel’s Nest (a haibun) Yesterday, as I was eating breakfast on my porch, a squirrel descended a tree on a mission, seeking a dead branch. It jumped from limb to limb until it found what it considered an ideal choice, nipped it off. The twig had several offshoots making it difficult to handle as it climbed back to the top of the tree. The stick escaped its grasp, tumbled through the boughs to the ground. The squirrel sought another. During the time it took for me to eat my breakfast, several more twigs fell, making me believe that nest building is a demanding process. This morning the squirrel once again appeared seeking more nesting material. Again, several failed to make the climb. If this keeps up, my trees shall be well pruned of dead twigs. my father hammer in hand fails to strike the nail Poetry Backlash My poem on paper clenched and crumbled is tossed and fed to the waiting dog, who eats it with smack, a loud, snarly grumble.

His stomach reacts in a noisy mumble, seems it didn’t enjoy trite dialogue, found upon the paper clenched and crumbled.

How the stomach turned and tumbled, leaping like a hoppy frog, then released a loud snarly grumble spoken with a brassy rumble, as if it had eaten a chili dog, instead of paper clenched and crumbled.

Left the dog sincerely humble, for he had eaten like a hog chewing paper with a rowdy, snarly grumble.

As for the paper with words that bumbled, that fell into the stomach of the dog, where it tossed, turned and finally crumbled, it ain’t been heard from since the loud, brassy grumble.

61 Limericks Time for a bath in the tub I needed a good, clean scrub.

Put the duck in to float, Added my boat, And sang out, “Rub-a-dub-dub” * There once was a man with big ears who was afraid of violent wind sheers he ventured out by mistake during a tornado outbreak and hasn’t been seen in years. * Birds at my back door do come to hunt bugs and gather odd crumbs they’re there in a flash leave with a dash they have gobble and go syndrome * There once was a man who was small His wife was exceedingly tall This worked out fine Except the time She tripped over him in the hall.

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senior bus tour a photograph of a photographer taking a photo of old oaks

Wednesday prayers and ashes turn in here

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“The Unveiling” and Other Poems Billy Adams The Unveiling

The Rose

Letters tumble in patchwork quilt patterns, twist, tumble in the swirling mist, of the unconscious mind.

Phantom phrases dance around the edges.

My grandmother grew roses Her roses flourished in the midst of impossible circumstances.

At times, partial words appear, leave behind ghostly trails.

Time drifts on; hours, weeks, months.

From the dark edges, letters form up and march into the mind.

Like tin soldiers marching, words, phrases and sentences appear.

Paragraphs unfold.

An army marches into view.

A masterpiece is born.

The creative genius buried deep within our souls is unveiled.

She had many colors, from deep reds to white.

My favorite was a deep red with velvet leaves.

Recently, I saw a blue rose.

I didn’t realize they existed.

The blue roses were already wilting turning brown around the edges.

We start life soft as the velvet rose.

But as time goes on, like the rose, we begin to wilt and soft skin hardens like shoe leather.

In the fullness of time, we will shed this house of clay and be transformed, like a worm to a butterfly, and reflect the inter beauty of our spirit.

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Ways of the Wind

Blackberry Winter

Standing beneath a giant oak tree A soft moaning sound tickles my ears.

An aircraft on approach for landing, I think. Looking up I see oak leaves form tiny green fists and quiver in the wind.

Soft, warm southern winds awaken cold sod.

Just wind flowing through the limbs of the oak tree. The wind and the jet engine sound almost the same but they are very different.

Bulbs, long dormant, respond and send up green stems that sprout yellow flowers.

Hawthorns awaken, cover roadsides with color and the smell of new life.

We know about the airliner, but we do not know the ways of the wind.

Trees sprout tender leaves, first softwoods, followed by oak, then hickory.

The wind brings fluffy white clouds, a summer storm bearing seeds, and is a forlorn wail on a dark cold night.

Just before the black walnut trees sprout their summer finery, blackberry vines begin to stir.

Some day I will see the face of God and learn the ways of the wind.

One night in late April Jack Frost returns, slowing the metamorphosis.

My parents called it Blackberry Winter.

Why is still a mystery.

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Adversaries

Blended Communities

A small gray squirrel, perched on back door porch rail stares at a gray cat inside the house.

In the not so distant past, Divisions existed between city and farm dwellers.

The cat watches intently, tail twitching, legs bunching, suddenly springing and bouncing off the glass door.

They were so different that they could be identified by their dress and talk.

His prey doesn’t run away, but continues to move in his jerky fashion, finally bounding across the yard to some nearby trees.

The frustrated cat watches, tail sweeping side to side.

Will this dumb squirrel survive to see another spring?

With the advent of rapid transport, the two groups divided into three.

City dwellers, urban yuppies and farmers.

Four lane highways caused more blending.

Just the other day, I saw a BMW with a gun rack, and a man jogging in bib overalls.

No wonder we are is suffering from an identity crisis.

Blackbirds A cloud of blackbirds spin across a field.

They fly in funnel-shaped formations.

In constant motion, some land while others leap skyward.

Patterns and colors are endless as sunlight reflects from body surfaces.

Miniature tornados, they dance to a ballad burned into their psyches eons ago.

On black Friday, the same patterns occur in countless department stores.

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“A Heavy Snow Stills Life” and Other Poems Faye Adams A Heavy Snow Stills Life So still the air we listen for the hawk we watch for birds but haven’t heard a single tweet or squawk Our world has stopped lies silent as the crypt No harsh wind stirs no motor purrs all nature read the script Yet sun has come with want to warm the air to sparkle earth enhance her worth in diamonds everywhere

Waits the Day (A Salute to Emily Dickinson) I lie in bed this early morn with no clear thought of noon, with darkness swelling like the tide and pulsing round the room.

Oh, come the day, my silent cry to light this smothered tomb!

Thoughts whirl, like dervish swirl to threaten sleep away, thunder rolls across the sky as though God walks this way, and lightning flashes in my eye to signal starless sway.

Though forces all around me curl, they hasten not the light.

The lilies yearn, cocooned in dark, to burst upon my sight.

The phoebe waits to raise her song, yet lingers still the night.

68 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal A Scarlet Lady, Sheathed in Green

Angel’s Touch

All summer long, she stands alone, embarrassed by her gown. with nothing treasured, nothing gained and naught to call her own.

If I were an angel, I'd grant the Asian infant freedom and a halcyon wind,

A scarlet lady, sheathed in green her heart in longing mode, anticipates her gown aglow, her annual glamour owed.

Eclipsed among those greater trees whose leaves wear lustrous shine, while maple leaves may only claim slow passing page of time.

Yet comes a sudden autumn chill when all her neighbors smile, for now she stands amid the brown in stunning scarlet style.

infuse the Native American papoose with ancestral pride, give the African baby nuru, the light of understanding, a potent shield in a harsh world, and bring the Hispanic infante respect and peace of heart.

If I were an angel, I'd kiss [with my eyes] the Jewish babe whose soul from heaven knows all things* and efface memory, visit the Caucasian at birth with the gift of grace and a sense of moral reason which comes only from God, and to all the rest—newly born— the wisdom of Solomon and literary promise, that the brotherhood of man might match the balance of nature. *This belief requires the babe’s memory be erased at birth.

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The Gold of Heaven (A Salute to William Butler Yeats) Had I but sight of heaven’s gold its streets’ transparent sea of light with Christ the Son upon his throne beside his Father in royal scope . . .

I’d take a brush and dip in hope to paint the scene for all to view the gold of heaven in holy light, such warmth and light as never seen in earthly skirts of common green.

I’d plant a hunger in each heart for light and love as offered free at utmost cost from Father God who gave his Son to ransom me and thee.

Grace E. Green, “Rocky Mountain National Park, CO” (1)

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Japan, the Country of Military Precision (a haibun)

John J. Han As a native of South Korea and a frequent visitor to Japan, I am fascinated by the island country’s rise as a world power. After the United States forced its doors open in the mid-nineteenth century, Japan modernized itself with remarkable speed, westernizing its institutions and strengthening its economic and military power. Eventually, the country became strong enough to win the Russo-Japanese War (190405), annex more than twenty countries in the first half of the twentieth century, and fight against the mighty U.S. forces in the Pacific War. Those who have had personal interactions with Japanese will acknowledge that they look humble and modest. However, Japanese are extremely disciplined people as well.

Hiroshima park the upward mobility of bamboo trees An experience I had in Hiroshima in May 2019 testifies to military precision, which is an essential element of modern Japanese culture. I was on my way from Hiroshima Station to Fukuyama Station, which is located 50 miles to the east. My Shinkansen bullet train—which was eastbound and would stop at Fukuyama—was scheduled to leave Hiroshima at 10:39 a.m. I went to the platform at 10:00 and waited for my train. At 10:15, a train bound for Tokyo arrived. Following the crowd, I mistakenly stepped inside, and the train left within a minute. Soon, I found out that the train would not stop at Fukuyama Station. Panicking, I asked a train conductor, who kindly advised me that I get off the train at Okayama Station, go to the platform for westbound trains, take a slow train, and get off at Fukuyama Station. The problem was that I would have only three minutes to catch the slow train. As instructed, I got off the bullet train, ran through the milling crowd, and reached the platform for the Hiroshima-bound train. While I was wondering for three seconds if the train sitting before me was mine, it left the station— at the exact time the conductor had indicated. In Japan, trains seemed to operate without even a second’s delay. After agonizing for a few minutes, I managed to return to Hiroshima, started all over again, and reached Fukuyama. The incident is a reminder that one should never underestimate Japan. It is the country of military precision! bullet train passing the railway platform shakes for two seconds

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My round-trip tickets for Hiroshima-Fukuyama. The stamp shows that I passed the gate to the platform at 10:00 a.m., thirty-nine minutes prior to the arrival of my train.

A TV monitor at Hiroshima Station. The schedule for the next three eastbound trains are shown. Instead of waiting further to take the last one (10:39), I took the first one (10:17), which did not stop at Fukuyama Station.

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I Would Rather Take a Ferry (a haibun)

John J. Han Flying has always made me nervous. No, I am not afraid of dying while traveling by air; statistically, flying is safer than a road trip. My nervousness comes from worries about trivial things. The prospect of navigating large crowds, going through the checkpoint, and finding my gate at the airport stresses me out even before I leave home. Then, I am fearful of my taxi not arriving on time. When the taxi arrives, I worry about other possibilities—those of missing my flight, losing my passport, losing my boarding pass, losing my billfold, and losing my cell phone. Few possessions are irreplaceable in life, but I hate the inconvenience of losing things, which makes me constantly double-check my belongings. baggage claim my bag always comes out at the end In my early sixties, I now feel both nervous and confused when I fly. Although mentally sharp in normal situations, I tend to forget things and get distracted when dozens of strangers scurry in all different directions. My recent trip from Hiroshima, Japan, to St. Louis exemplifies the mental fog that shrouds me when I travel on a plane. When I left Hiroshima early in the morning, I did not foresee a succession of baffling situations awaiting me. My travel agent had suggested that, unlike my previous trips to Japan, I arrive at Tokyo Haneda Airport, change to a domestic flight to Hiroshima Airport, and go to the city of Hiroshima by airport limousine. The way to Hiroshima was uneventful, but the return trip is another story. air travel comforting to see a fellow passenger pray My plane departed Hiroshima Airport thirty minutes later than scheduled. That left less than two hours for me to find the way to the international terminal at Haneda, go through security, go through immigration, find my gate, and board my flight to Los Angeles on time. Upon arrival at the Haneda domestic terminal, I did not find much help in getting the correct shuttle bus. One person mistakenly told me to take the escalator and go to the lower level, where there was no bus. After running around a few more minutes, I managed to find the “green bus” and arrive at the international terminal. out of breath— a lion stops chasing its prey When it was time to line up for a security check, I realized that my bladder had been full for more than thirty minutes. Unable to hold it any longer, I walked into a men’s room nearby. The restroom was completely empty. A dozen compartments were there, but I found only one urinal. Being in a men’s room with only one urinal made me feel strange, but I heaved a sigh of relief relieving myself. Then, a young woman walked in, saw me, looked at the sign at the entrance, and walked out. Seconds later, I heard two young women giggling at the entrance; they seemed to mock me. Having neither time nor desire to double-check the restroom sign, I ran toward the security checkpoint, wondering if I had somehow used a ladies’ room. What still puzzles me is why there was a urinal in a ladies’ room.

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squirrel acrobatics in the backyard my cat yawns After passing through security, I was ready for a brief interview with an immigration official.

Considering the short line, I would see the official in about two minutes. Then, an official from the security screening area ran toward immigration lines, announcing that someone had dropped a billfold.

The green, flat basket he was holding showed the billfold. My immediate thought was, “What kind of person loses a wallet at an airport? How careless!” When the official came to my line, the billfold looked familiar to me. It was mine. All the contents within the wallet seemed intact. Pretending to be calm, I showed him my passport, took my wallet, and thanked the official. Then, I proceeded to the immigration counter for a stamp. What a relief to get my billfold back on time! What could have happened if I did not get it on time? “lost and found” items I can’t help but recall “Amazing Grace” It felt good to be finally inside the aircraft. The smiling faces and soft-spoken words of Japanese flight attendants soothed my soul. Closing my eyes, I fell asleep. After flying for more than nine hours over the Pacific Ocean, the plane arrived at Los Angeles in the morning. It would take another seventeen hours to reach St. Louis; the only flight to St. Louis for that day was scheduled to leave Los Angeles fourteen hours later. Having slept intermittently during the flight, my brain felt somewhat clear. Then, it occurred to me that I had yet to check my billfold more closely. When I opened it, I saw only one 5,000 yen ($US 46) bank note, although I had had two. How did I know? Well, the bank note features Ichiyō Higuchi (1872-96), a famous Meiji-era writer, and the note would no longer be used in two years. That is the reason why I had wanted to keep the two notes as souvenirs. Thievery is uncommon among Japanese officials, so the man who delivered the billfold to me must not have stolen part of my money. Then, did somebody pick up my billfold, take 5,000 yen as a gift to himself or herself, and give the billfold to the official? The fact that I was wondering what had happened angered me even more, because I should have protected my billfold in the first place. literary pilgrimage taking ten pictures of the same statue It was now time to go through immigration at L.A. International Airport. When my turn arrived, I showed my passport and the printout from a kiosk to an immigration official, who let me go. When I was about to leave for my connecting flight, it occurred to me that I did not have my boarding pass. I had carried all of my boarding passes from Hiroshima, which were the size of a passport, inside my passport.

The U. S. immigration official probably took them thinking that they were my immigration and customs declaration forms, not my boarding passes. After asking a couple of people, I managed to get another boarding pass and went to my gate for travel to St. Louis nine hours later. boarding area even the farthest seat doesn’t block out noise Soon after reaching my gate, I realized that the gates in the area were exclusively for foreign flights, such as Lufthansa and Alitalia. Also, unlike other areas of the airport, I saw very few people waiting for their

74 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal flights, which made me wonder if I was at the right place. After several hours, the flight schedule monitor finally showed that I was at the right terminal. However, the monitor did not show my gate number.

Even later flights had their gate numbers. My gate number turned out to be correct, but TV monitors never showed it even at the time of boarding. international terminal mysterious words from each gate The way from L.A. to St. Louis was exhausting. The constant crying of a baby boy took nap time out of both his helpless parents and those who sat nearby. Parents of spoiled children seemed to find their shrieking voices very cute. “Is it time for me to choose another way to travel?” I wondered. Perhaps I needed—and still need—to find out whether ships are available for international trips. I would not mind riding a superfast ferry—a popular mode of transportation in Japan—to cross the Pacific Ocean. It would be so relaxing to see the endless seawater, curling waves, starry night sky, and seagulls on the way to Japan. looking out the plane window— between clouds a blue sea

In L.A., I lost the last two boarding passes from Hiroshima International Airport. Much smaller than the standard boarding passes, they can be easily lost. When the Japan Airlines agent in Hiroshima asked me if I wanted bigger boarding passes, I should have said yes.

75

My boarding pass newly printed out at L.A. International Airport.

A 5,000-yen bank note from Hiroshima, it survived my long trip to the United States. I lost the other one in my billfold somewhere in Hiroshima. The Japanese bank note features IchiyĹ? Higuchi, one of my favorite Japanese short story writers.

76 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

A TV monitor at L.A. International Airport shows no gate number for my flight to St. Louis.

This super-speed ferry took me from Hiroshima to Matsuyama, the capital city of Ehime Prefecture on Shikoku Island, Japan.

77

The marine voyage from Hiroshima to Matsuyama was tranquil and picturesque. It took seventy minutes to reach the destination through the Seto Inland Sea. Nicknamed “the world capital of haiku culture,” Matsuyama is the birthplace of the haiku poet Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902).

The city is also the main setting of Natsume Sōseki’s Bochan (坊っちゃん, 1906), a perennially popular novel in Japan.

78 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Prose

_________________________________________________________________

“Every artist was at first an amateur.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-82) “Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”

—Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980) “These indecencies in present-day books and plays are all the more revolting because they are so unnecessary.”

—Harold Bell Wright (1872-1944)

79

Dad’s House Paula Nunning It was a sanctuary for me growing up, a place safe and secure from the pangs of childhood and all the turmoil and tragedy teenage life and early adulthood can bring. It was my childhood castle, a refuge complete with my own pink bedroom with pink curtains and the sweet scents from my own lilac bush outside my window to comfort me. Through my child’s eyes, Dad’s house was massive. However, children grow up, lilac bushes wither, and tragedies turn into triumphs. Although Dad’s house is now a shell and far from the sanctuary it once was, it gave me my constitution and stability to journey my way through this lovely life.

Three bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a basement made up the small structure situated on a vast double corner lot, complete with the must-have fencing for all the stray pets it could possibly hold. Dad and I collected homeless animals like auction houses collecting priceless paintings. Precisely manicured hedges surrounded the yards. Green Velvet Boxwoods lining the front of the house on either side of the concrete porch. What once held the aroma of homemade apple pie and lavender eventually gave way to an earthy and unforgettable scent of mothballs throughout the house. Whenever the front door was opened, the tang flew out and stung whoever stood in the way of its fury. Hung in various bedroom closets, Dad’s once pristine Pendleton sweaters now resembled Swiss cheese with moth holes and chewed threads.

My bedroom, once that little girl’s make-believe world of Pegasus and Softball World Champion, now was a storage room for Dad’s Cole Haans and old sweatshirts. The bathroom, a small uneventful place, still held the clean aroma of Dad’s shaving mug. It was his ritual every morning: a quick stir of the shaving soap with the swish of the shaving brush made for a grand lather! It was perfect for a Double Edge Safety Razor to give a smooth trim. Nowadays, the green mug is burned into my memory. “A shave and haircut two bits!” Dad would sing when the job was finished.

The living room, a once inviting, warm mahogany, had become a kind of orderly chaos, the too painful evidence of the onset of Dad’s unrelenting Alzheimer's. The neat and tidy console that once held his prized collection of John Wayne and historical documentary video cassettes now had knobs missing, the cassettes a blessed mess all over the floor. His disease became all too real for me when I asked him one evening why he did not watch his videos anymore. I remember he paused in thought for a moment. Rubbing his chin with his finger and lowering his head, he replied, “I forgot how.”

The kitchen was the family’s conference room. Any pending issues of the day— homework assignments, school functions, chores—were discussed in a disorderly fashion in this sacred room. Dad, always with his cup of percolated Folgers coffee in hand, acted as moderator.

With his quick wit and unmatched humor, he guided us through the process of decision- making, negotiations and solutions.

The basement was an orderly space for our pet hamsters, our not-yet-housebroken puppies, and our games. When the weather got rough, it would double as a tornado shelter. It was my world of make believe classroom and chalkboard; yes, this is where I decided teaching would play an important part in my world. At 5-years-old, I had great presence in front of my Collie as he listened attentively until he decided it was time to play. Fortunately, he kept me grounded!

80 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal The bushes are gone now, the trees all cut down by the electric company in 2006. No more puppies or squirrels freely run through the yards as they once did. The little pink bedroom with little pink curtains that once promised safety and security gave way to time and tarnish.

What will always remain is my dad’s legacy, his strength and character in me. I am forever my dad’s daughter.

Dad’s House

81

Him

(a short story) Jo A. Baldwin I liked the way he looked at me. His furtive glance was capable of conveying respect, affection, and lust all at the same time in a dignified way.

We were both graduate students who lived up north. I attended a university in our hometown, but he studied out west. Having acquired two masters in the process, I was working on a Ph.D. in English. He was in Education and had a bachelor’s from Berkeley, a master’s from Harvard, and was working on a Ph.D. at Stanford. However, when he found out I already had two master’s degrees, he added courses that enabled him to graduate with a master’s and Ph.D. from Stanford simultaneously.

He was not a pretty man, like my father and brother—I came from a family where the men folk looked better than the women—but he was handsome in a biblical sort of way. I don’t mean extra tall like King Saul or comely like David and his son Absalom, but good looking, maybe like Moses, because he was Jewish. He was tall, thin and to me he was gorgeous mainly because of his walk and the way he carried himself. He had a swagger that was humble yet full of confidence because he was intelligent. Also, because his family was very rich, his father being a business man whose ancestors fled the Holocaust. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses and had chiseled features and a perfectly shaped bald head. His look was unique in that he favored a hippie and a rabbi at the same time.

I had seen him around campus during the summers and holidays and heard of him before we officially met that winter break. He had a reputation for dating black women, and according to the grapevine, he had just broken up with a woman who looked like me. I was single at the time and available, so I didn’t avoid him when I saw him at the mall or in the library because I was enrolled in a course that Winter Term. Now that I think about it, I was studying in the library during his winter break when he approached me at my table.

“Hi,” he said. “May I join you?”

“Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.”

“You look puzzled. What are you reading?” “‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’” Before I could finish saying the title, he started reciting the poem line after line while looking into my eyes. “‘Let us go then, you and I, / When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table,’” and he stopped at “‘Talking of Michelangelo.’” Then he proceeded to tell me what the poem was about, explaining that it was a sad poem even though parts of it sound like a love song. Listening to him, I made up my mind to get to know him because he was the first man who ever introduced himself to me reciting poetry.

“What’s your name?” he asked, smiling.

I told him and asked him his name, although I already knew it. He told me, and we went back and forth getting general information about each other, mostly from small talk. He told me he had only one sibling, a sister, who was married to the Executive Chef at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco. He said he ate there free and was addicted to Beluga Caviar that at that time cost $75.00 an ounce.

82 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal I told him my brother lived in Las Vegas and that I had some half-sisters who lived down south. Regarding food, I told him I had an elderly friend at church who gave me bags of frozen turnips and collard greens as a staple, because she knew I didn’t cook and ate out a lot. Just from that conversation, I saw how we were different not just racially, but culturally and economically.

After about an hour of whispers, he asked me if I liked Indian food. I said yes, even though I thought it was boring if the cook was skimpy with the curry powder.

“I’m on my way to dinner,” he said. “Won’t you join me?”

“Sure.” I knew the restaurant he named and that it was walking distance from the library and where I parked my car.

“Do you mind walking, or should I drive?” he asked.

“We can walk,” I said. “I’m dressed warm and wearing comfortable boots.” So, we headed off.

At the restaurant, I noticed he had impeccable manners. He ordered a bottle of rose and knew to squeeze the cork, look at the color of the wine in his half-filled glass, swirl it around, sniff it, taste it, and nod his head for the waiter to pour me a full glass. He proposed a toast saying, “To new possibilities.” We smiled at each other, as if agreeing that our time together would be light and fun however long it lasted.

After our first date, he called me when he said he would. We went for walks in the city park and to an action movie neither of us liked and left before it was over. Our best date was a holiday play put on by the drama department at the university. Over coffee, we discussed the crisis action in the play that was well acted and capable of multiple interpretations. We had some good conversations, and he promised when he went back to Palo Alto we would still stay in touch with letters and weekly phone calls. I already knew what my first perfumed note would say: “I miss you. I miss you a lot. I really miss you. I miss you very much.” …

I will never forget our first kiss. He came to my apartment one cold night with snow and ice on the windblown streets. I remember asking him if the weather ever kept him at home.

“No, not usually,” he said, “especially since I’m used to nine months of winter being the norm.”

Winter didn’t bother me either, but I didn’t say anything. We were sitting on the sofa, each with a glass of wine, not watching the TV that was on just to help with overcoming awkward moments of silence and inactivity mixed with anticipation.

I gave him permission to put his arm around my shoulders saying I was cold, so I could rest my head on his chest. I felt his warm breath on the part in my hair. “‘Come live with me and be my love, and we will some new pleasures prove,”’ he said.

I think he was quoting John Donne, but I wasn’t sure and didn’t care. He sounded so good. “Are you trying to make me dizzy?” I asked, “because if you are, the wine beat you to it.”

“No. I just know you like poetry and want to make you happy.”

After hearing those words, he didn’t need to say anymore. Imagine soft white rose petals, peppermint, and closed eyes imitating sleep in a dream you didn’t want to end.

83

When Yellow Meets White (a play)

Emily Q. Lu Scene 1 Summertime. Sunday afternoon. KĹ?be, Japan. New college graduate KIRI YAMADA brings home BIFF NICKELSON, her equally young American boyfriend. Kiri has wavy black hair and a tiny figure while Biff has blond hair, skinny and is 6'' tall. His hair is noticeably greasy, clothes are slightly stained.

Kiri quietly unlocks the front door and cautiously steps into the hallway with luggage, followed by Biff.

KIRI

Ta-da-ee-ma (I'm home)!

Kiri's mother Matsuko and father Ryuuichi Yamada, who goes by YAMADA, enter the hall. Yamada is in yukata, holding a can of Japanese-labeled beverage.

They both speak with heavy Japanese accent.

MATSUKO Ah, Kiri-chan! O-kah-eh-ri-na-sai (Welcome home)!

Matsuko hugs Kiri.

KIRI

Kaa-sahn (mother), I missed you so much! (turns to Yamada) Tou-sahn (father), hee-sa-shee-buri (long time no see)!

Kiri hugs Yamada, who is shy and only pats her on the back. He turns to look at Biff, sternly.

YAMADA Hmmp, koh-chi-rah-wa (this is)...?

KIRI

(pretends to notice just now, claspping her hands) Oh, yea! Kaa-sahn, Tou-sahn, please meet my boyfriend, Biff. He's from Nebraska. (To Biff) This is my mom, Matsuko, and my father, Ryuuichi, but he likes to be called Yamada as you know.

Kiri chortles nervously, gives Biff the eye. Biff catches on, extends his hands to Matsuko first, then Yamada.

BIFF

Oh yes. (stuttering) Ko...kon-ni-chi-wa (good afternoon), Mr. and Mrs. Yamada, ha-ji-meh-mashi-teh (nice to meet you).

84 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Yamada hesitates for a second but shakes his hands.

MATSUKO We've heard a lotto about you! It's na-ee-su to mee-to you too, uh...

BIFF

Biff.

Matsuko struggles with pronouncing his name.

MATSUKO Bee...bee-fu? Sorry, it's difficult to say for Japanese.

YAMADA We ah famous here for bee-fu, you know.

BIFF

(pretends to be amused) Right, KĹ?be beef. (fake laughs and side-eyes Kiri) I wanted to try that for sure.

YAMADA

(clapping dramatically) And now you ah in KĹ?be. Welcome home!

Biff and Kiri pretend to chuckle.

KIRI

Why don't we go inside, it's sorta suffocating here, right, Kaa-sahn? Biff?

Biff pokes Kiri in the arm.

KIRI

Um, actually...(to Matsuko) Does the bath have water?

MATSUKO Eh, dou-shi-deh (why)? You need to bathe?

KIRI

(apologetically) I accidentally spilled my porridge over Biff on the airplane.

YAMADA Zahn it's good idea to sha-wa, since you kind of smell at za moment.

Kiri drags Biff out of the corridor offstage.

MATSUKO

(calling to Kiri) You might want to try harder to open the lid of the bathtub; your father broke it last month.

85 KIRI

(off-stage) Hai, na-ru-hoh-toh (Got it)!

Matsuko and Yamada are alone at the doorway.

YAMADA Matsuko, why would you lie? I didn't break it.

MATSUKO

(crossing her arms) Well why are you so rude to the boy? He didn't do anything wrong.

Yamada doesn't know how to answer. Lights dim.

Scene 2 Lights up in the living room. The family is sitting at the dining table. Kiri and Matsuko chit-chat, while Matsuko is preparing Matcha. They then notice Yamada is more silent than usual.

KIRI

Tou-sahn, some oo-long tea?

Yamada hesitates to drink, slams it down on the table. Kiri lets out a gasp.

Matsuko stands up to get paper towel, shaking her head.

YAMADA Upon meeting an elder, doesn't he know not to extend his hand first?

KIRI

I told him to do that, Tou-sahn! Plus, this is his first time in Japan...

YAMADA No, it's not he's new; it's the same everywhere in the world!

KIRI

(like she's trying to calm down a child) Alright, I apologize for him then.

YAMADA He forgets manners in front of his future in-laws!

MATSUKO Look who's talking? Remember when you first met my parents, Yamada?

Kiri suppresses her laughter.

KIRI

Well, we haven't exactly had the talk yet.

86 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal YAMADA

(rising up) What? Haven't even talked marriage yet?! Then why on earth is he here?!

MATSUKO Sit down, Yamada!

KIRI

He's here because he wants to meet you! (as if to say "duh!") Why else?

YAMADA When I was his age, I was already married to your mother.

Kiri shakes her head.

MATSUKO Things are different now; Mrs. Yamamoto's son just got a divorce. And your nephew Shun is not marriedYAMADA -Shun has a girlfriend.

MATSUKO So does BiffKIRI

I thought they broke up-

MATSUKO No, they didn't break up, he wanted to move to Tokyo but Naomi said she wanted to stay in OsakaKIRI

That's annoying, so did they move-

MATSUKO Well I heard from his mother last week that they're still fighting about itKIRI

I hope they work it out, like Biff and I. Omigosh, did I tell you that he said he's fine with moving hereYamada rises again, screaming.

YAMADA Can you both listennnn?

Silence, as Kiri and Matsuko turn their attention to him at last.

You need to marry alright, Kiri. But I'm going to be honest with you - I don't like him.

87 KIRI

Tou-san, you don't even know him yet. You have to give him a try, at least-

MATSUKO My father, a Subaru man, didn't like the fact that you worked at Suzuki, didn't he? Isn't that laughable to think about now?

KIRI

Thank you, Kah-san.

Yamada shakes his head as Biff enter.

KIRI

(to Biff) Oh-ka-eh-ri (welcome back)!

Kiri pours tea for Biff.

BIFF

That tub was so high-tech; I mean it preserves the temperature of the bathwater...? (to the parents) I LOVED it.

YAMADA

(stealthily) Did you drain the water after you finished?

BIFF

(reassuringly) Oh, yea, of course, Mr. Yamada.

YAMADA See?!

KIRI BIFF KIRI

(rising, to Kiri and Matsuko while pointing to Biff)

I forgot to tell Biff, that's all.

Wait, did I miss something?

It's a Japanese custom to use the same bath water for the family. Guests go first, then family. We don't usually drain the water until everyone's finished, but it's no big-

YAMADA -unless you think we are dirty.

BIFF

(holding onto his chest) Oh gosh no, definitely not! I'm so sorry.

88 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal Matsuko interrupts.

MATSUKO Hai-hai, the tea is ready! Shall we?

Yamada murmurs under his breath.

BIFF

Oh, I know tea culture is like, huge, in Japan.

YAMADA You need to change into yukata first.

MATSUKO Only if they wish to...

(rolling her eyes)

YAMADA What do you mean, if they wish to? Of course they have to, this is tradition!

Kiri drags Biff out the room.

KIRI

See you in ten!

Light dims.

Scene 3 Lights up. Kiri and Biff are in her bedroom. It is a simple room, a closet is in view. She opens it and takes out two sets of yukata.

BIFF KIRI

Seems like your dad is totally serious about traditions.

(Handing Biff his yukata) I should've known that they'd want to welcome you in the most...Japanese way, I guess.

They put on yukata while talking.

BIFF

KIRI

I thought they didn't want me over, I mean, it took them two months to reply - (clumsily slipping yukata on) is this how you do it?

Yes, just tug it a little tight at the waist.

(Kiri helps him) By the way, sorry if my father comes off as...

89 BIFF KIRI

BIFF

Kiri, it's all right. You told me ahead of time.

He's just always very protective of me, ever since I was a little child. He always made sure that either he or my mother would personally drive me to school, because that was a time when we saw news stories about those children disappearing...

I guess we can't blame him, huh?

They embrace. Lights out.

Scene 4 Lights up. Kiri and Biff enter living room, where there now is a tatami, on which Yamada and Matsuko are sitting on their calves. Teaware is already prepared.

MATSUKO

(to Biff) Kak-koh-yee (handsome)! (gesturing) Please, do sit.

Kiri sits on her calves while Biff just...sits.

YAMADA

(to Biff) You are supposed to sit like this (pointing to himself).

Biff tries to imitate, but struggles.

MATSUKO Dai-jyou-boo (are you alright)?

BIFF Hai (yes)...

(embarrassed) The family bow to each other. Matsuko scoops Matcha powder into the bowl and ladles out hot water, then stirs with a whisk. She hands the bowl to Biff, who bows, then speculates it.

YAMADA What are you waiting for?

BIFF KIRI

I thought we were supposed to admire the tea-ware...

It's okay, you can just drink it.

Biff drinks in one-go.

90 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal BIFF

That was so nice, thank you, Mrs. Yamada.

YAMADA

(jumps out of his seat) That's not how you drink our tea! Jeez! Don't you know anything about us?

Yamada strides over to Biff's side and holds up the bowl.

YAMADA You can't just gulp it down like that! You have to take your time and be appreciative of the art and serenity of this tea ceremony!

KIRI

This is just practice! It's first time for-

YAMADA No! I want to see him do it right.

MATSUKO

(rising, determinedly) No, Yamada, we don't. We'll just enjoy the tea however we please. Now you're making a scene, how are we supposed to enjoy it now?

Kiri helps Biff get up, Biff is controlling himself from bursting into tears. They exit. Matsuko looks at Yamada angrily. Lights out.

Scene 5 Lights up in the living room. The family is eating at the dining table, sushi rolls and wasabi paste are visible.

YAMADA Wasabi-ku-da-sai (wasabi, please).

Biff immediately reaches for the wasabi paste tube and passes it.

YAMADA

(reluctantly and muttering)

hm-you.

MATSUKO Um, what's that?

YAMADA Thank you!

(louder) Kiri nudges Biff, who then squeezes some into Yamada's plate.

91 KIRI

Oh, you know what? I'll have some too.

BIFF

(concerned)

You sure?

Kiri nods, Biff is about squeeze out for KiriYAMADA Stop!

(Biff pauses) You let her do whatever she wants and you think this is the way to keep her?

BIFF

By no means is that my intention, sir...

YAMADA It sure looks like it.

BIFF

Kiri said she wanted to have some...

KIRI I did.

(sigh)

Matsuko What's the big deal? If Kiri wants to try some, let her try.

YAMADA Kiri cannot eat wasabi, or spice, or else she gets rashes!

KIRI

But it's just this little, it's fine, really...

YAMADA Hmph! You're being blinded, Kiri! Too often have I seen bad people letting you do as you please only to make you like them! But that's not actually good for you, and you know that.

BIFF KIRI

What?!

What?!

YAMADA Only a real Japanese man can take care of Kiri, I don't want some lanky American halfwit! Look at him! I bet he can't take even one gram of wasabi!

92 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal Yamada squeezes out a whole gram of wasabi onto his sushi roll.

KIRI

No sane person can take one gram of that!

MATSUKO

(to Yamada) Um...what do you think you are doing?

BIFF

(clasps, rubbing his hands) Well, with all due respect, sir, this lanky American halfwit might just disappoint your ego.

Biff takes the paste and squeezes wildly onto his sushi roll. Yamada snatches the paste away and struggles to squeeze the remainder out.

KIRI

You two stop already!

Matsuko stops Kiri and shakes her head.

KIRI

But, kah-san...

Matsuko leads Kiri out of the room and offstage.

The two men grunt and fight for wasabi paste as they try to finish each of their own wasabi portion.

BIFF

(mouth-full) I...am...not...going...to...lose!

At this point the two are almost caught in a fistfight.

YAMADA Give me the paste, coward!

Biff's face is visibly angry.

BIFF

Coward!? Say that again!

Biff aims the paste directly at his mouth. He chokes and coughs painfully.

Yamada scurries toward the kitchen, runs back in with a pitcher of water. He forces the whole pitcher down Biff's throat, who is not bothered by the wasabi anymore, but is now choking on water.

BIFF

Stop!!!!!!

93 Yamada, now with an empty pitcher, thumps on the floor.

BIFF

(panting) Are you out of your mind? You could have killed me!

YAMADA Listen, BeefBIFF

It's BIFF WITH AN 'I'!

YAMADA You are going to take away my only daughter, the pearl of our family.

BIFF

And I'm going to treat her equally as much of a pearl as you've done for the past twenty-two years.

Biff, dramatically, is about to cry.

BIFF

I don't know why you don't believe me!

Yamada springs back up onto his feet.

YAMADA

(pouting, mockingly) I’m going to cry to mommy now because my father-in-law was mean to me, wah-

BIFF

Why do you have to be so mean- (beat) wait, what did you say?

Yamada gets up to sit next to Biff, grabs his shoulders and shakes him.

YAMADA If you ever make her cry, I will slice you in half like one does in FruitNinja.

BIFF

(inhales) Mr. Yamada, I promise you-

YAMADA You don't need to promise me. Promise yourself. (beat, squinting) Maybe, just maybe...

Kiri and Matsuko enter.

94 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal KIRI

What did you do?!

MATSUKO Surely the man who never cleans the house can care less.

YAMADA

(pushing Kiri and Matsuko out of the room) No, you go away. Let us do the honor.

MATSUKO

(offstage) Don't make a bigger mess!

Yamada turns around, facing Biff.

YAMADA You remember what you said.

BIFF

Oh, of course, Mr. Yamada.

YAMADA You already broke the first rule; you should call me Oh-tou-san.

CURTAIN.

John J. Han, “Ready to Gallop, Onomichi, Japan”

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A Short Life, a Big Presence: Ichiyō Higuchi Sites in Tokyo John J. Han Ichiyō Higuchi (樋口 一葉, 1872-1896) is an intriguing writer in the history of modern Japanese fiction. In her short lifetime, she wrote fiction for only four years, but her stories elicit much attention from both scholars and the general populace. She came from a peasant family that had moved to Tokyo, where she was born. When she was seventeen, her father died, leaving his family in a state of destitution.

She barely supported her mother and younger sister by doing menial work, such as washing and needlework. Ichiyō became a literary sensation with the publication of her novella Child’s Play (1895 and 1896). Her characters and events in her fiction are relatable to many readers—poor people who try to survive in a big city, who find solace in friendships, and who help each other.

The short story “Separate Ways,” a popularly assigned text in world literature classes in the United States, exemplifies Ichiyō’s preoccupation with the life of low-class urbanites in her time. The main characters are Okyō, a seamstress in her early twenties, and Kichizō, a sixteen-year-old apprentice in an umbrella factory. Derided by people for his short stature, Kichizō often visits Okyō, who cares for him as if he were her brother. One day, he hears the rumor that she will leave the area to become someone’s mistress. Feeling both abandoned and outraged that she is compromising her virtue, he comes to her to protest. The story ends this way: [Kichizō] went to the front door and began to put his sandals on.

“Kichizō! You’re wrong. I’m leaving here, but I’m not abandoning you. You’re like my little brother. How can you turn on me?” From behind, she hugged him with all her might. “You’re too impatient. You jump to conclusions.”

“You mean you’re not going to be someone’s mistress?” Kichizō turned around.

“It’s not the sort of thing anybody wants to do. But it’s been decided. You can’t change things.”

He stared at her with tears in his eyes.

“Take your hand off me, Okyō.” (trans. Robert Lyons Danly) The naturalistic ending of the story makes the reader wonder if she was under the influence of European and American fiction in her time. In fact, she knew little about Western literature. Her literary training was limited to classical Japanese poetry, which she learned by attending the Haginoya (a well-known tanka school run by Utako Nakajima), and to fiction writing, which she learned under the mentorship of Nakarai Tōsui.

On the next few pages, readers will see some of the photos related to Ichiyō Higuchi. I took them on May 19, 2018, during my visit to Tokyo.

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Considering the author’s short lifespan (1872-96), the Ichiyō Memorial Museum in Taito Ward, Tokyo, is very large. This shows the popularity of her works among Japanese today. Ichiyō is a family name, which, in East Asia, precedes a given name.

Google Maps. The Ichiyō Memorial Museum is located in Taito Ward approximately three miles northeast of the University of Tokyo, which belongs to Bunkyo Ward. At Minami-Senju, located ¾ miles northeast of the Museum, stands a statue of the haiku poet Matsuo Basho.

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The monument to Ichiyō’s short novel Takekurabe (“Growing Up,” たけくらべ, 1895-96) stands in the Ichiyō Memorial Park. The story is set in Yoshiwara (吉原), the chief licensed pleasure quarter in northeastern Edo (Tokyo). Alongside the short story “Jūsan’ya” (“The Thirteenth Night,” 十三夜), Takekurabe is considered her best work.

The museum displays Ichiyō’s complete works, including her stories and diary entries.

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At the age of seventeen, IchiyĹ? lost her father and became the sole supporter of her mother and her younger sister. The drawing shows the shabby rented house they inhabited from 1890-93. Slightly taller than the others, it is second from the left, and the author ran the stationary store on the first floor. The store was in a poor neighborhood, only a five-minute walk from Yoshiwara.

The statue of IchiyĹ? at Hoshijni, a Buddhist temple 200 feet west of the Red Gate of the University of Tokyo, Bunkyo Ward. She lived on the second floor of the building next to the temple.

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The statue of Ichiyō at Hoshijni (close-up)

Google Maps shows the locations of Hoshinji (200 feet west of the University of Tokyo’s Red Gate, 東大赤門前) and of the Former Iseya Pawn Shop (舊伊勢屋質店), Bunkyo Ward, Tokyo.

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Hoshinji also houses the statue of a country girl in fashionable clothing. According to the head priest at the temple, some young women who dressed stylish used to flock to the University of Tokyo area, strolling in an effort to attract attention from a male student. The University, the most prestigious institution of higher learning in Japan, has produced many of the leading figures in politics and business.

A degree from the University is often considered the ticket to success in Japanese society.

University of Tokyo students perform a traditional dance at a spring festival before the University’s Red Gate (Akamon), May 2018.

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Old Iseya Pawnshop Ichiyō frequented. When a financial emergency arose, she rushed to this wooden shop to borrow money. Located a few blocks west of Hoshinji, the building draws many Ichiyo aficionados on a daily basis. It is registered as a cultural heritage site.

The entrance to the pawnshop displays a Chinese-language sign that reads, “Currently Open.”

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_________________________________________

On Writing Creatively

“The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.”

—Francis Bacon (1561-1626) “A synonym is a word you use when you can’t spell the word you first thought of.”

—Burt Bacharach (1928- ) “Everyone is necessarily the hero of his own life story.”

—John Barth (1930- )

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Haiku Thinking & Haiku Mechanics (a workshop)

Ben Moeller-Gaa This workshop will be broken up into two parts: the first is on Haiku Thinking, and the second is on Haiku Mechanics. I wanted to break things up in this way because writing haiku starts with being in the right frame of mind, or, more apply put, the right frame of mindfulness. This state of mindfulness is something that can be enjoyed all by itself without ever picking up a pen to write or opening a book to read. And once it is understood, the practice of reading and writing haiku can begin and be better understood.

Part 1: Haiku Thinking So, what is Haiku Thinking? It starts with the removal of the “I..” Haiku does not much care for the individual poet and their individual lives. Haiku is not about personal beliefs, philosophies, witticisms, or even the specific details about the poet’s own life. In fact, when haiku is done right, the poet becomes invisible or, at best, is mingling in the background. This is very different from most forms of poetry today, especially what we encounter here in the United States and what we would call the West, where the individual vision, life, and experiences of the individual poet are prized.

So, if haiku is not about the poet, then what is it about? I will say it like this: when you go out into your backyard or a park or a prairie or even a parking lot, for that matter, and you stop what you are doing and you are able to quiet your mind from the distractions of your personal day, you can look around and see that there is a whole lot of stuff happening all around you that does not much care that you are there. You may notice a breeze, the shifting light in the sky with clouds passing by, the hum of an insect, a ripple in a puddle, a possum making its way along a path of its own choosing, a shopping cart stuck out in the far corner collecting leaves in its empty frame. And as you watch the world happening around you, hundreds of more little things will start to snap into focus and come into view. And suddenly these little moments become the most interesting things in the world. And you begin to see that you are part of the world instead of the other way around. It comes from being mindful. And from this mindfulness, haiku start to emerge.

I can honestly say that being able to plug into this way of thinking, this way of seeing the world has changed the way I live my life. I have found so much more enjoyment, peace and delight by simply becoming aware of my surroundings and being able to become present in the moment. And being in the moment is what haiku is all about. Haiku exist in what I call The Eternal Now. We will get into this more when we get into Haiku Mechanics, but they capture moments that unfold in real time. And being able to stop what you are doing and see moments, little moments, unfold in real time, that is truly a gift to yourself. Again, this can be done without actually picking up a pen and writing or even opening a book to read. It can simply be lived.

What reading and writing haiku do, though, is expand on this gift. Reading a book of haiku or the latest issue of a journal will present hundreds of moments witnessed by others around the world for you to stop and revel in. Writing haiku gives you the gift of permission to stop what you are doing, be present in the moment and capture what you see and experience into words. With this gift, you have the opportunity to share these moments with others. This reciprocity of giving and receiving is embedded in the nature of haiku. The old saying goes, “A haiku is not truly finished until someone else reads it.” And the more you experience this form of poetry, the truer that will become.

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Writing Assignment: In the spirit of Haiku Thinking as well as this being a workshop, I’d like for you to take a moment to stop now and to be present here in this room and to reflect on everything that happened to you today up until this point. I would like for you to focus on nine things that you saw, that you experienced, that you bore witness to, as haiku is truly a form of bearing witness to the world, and write them down. When thinking of images, please do not wrap them in metaphors or use personifications or other writing techniques at all. Just write down things that you bore witness to as they were. Please also refrain from politics, religion, and any other ideologies of this sort. Think of this as writing about coffee that is just coffee and nothing more.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

This exercise is something that can be done once a day, twice a day, or any and every day of the rest of your life. It is also a way to help you get out of your head and into the moment, into the day you are living.

Sharing the list with others, as we will do in this workshop, will likely show some similarities with others around you. We, as humans, share more in common with our human experience and interaction in the world than we give ourselves credit for. This shared experience is a key ingredient to making a haiku work and is why they are able to transcend social constructs and be read and deeply felt by people all over the globe.

Part 2: Haiku Mechanics Now that we have gotten an idea as to what sort of mindfulness that is needed to get you into a haiku writing mood, it is fair to pose the question, just what is a haiku?

Haiku is a short form poem that began in Japan a few hundred years ago. It is widely written around the world today and is perfect for our hard-wired, fast-paced tech life as it is short enough for Twitter and, when done right, can pull you in and linger for hours, days, and even years.

How do you do it right?

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Five Rules of Haiku The following five rules are by no means the entirety of haiku, but they are good guideposts to get you started: 1. Haiku are not titled. Why? Because a haiku should give you everything you need within the poem itself making the title unnecessary.

2. Haiku are not overly detailed. Why? Because the idea is not to show the reader exactly what is seen down to the finite detail, but provide just enough of the scene to allow the reader to step into the moment and fill in the details themselves.

3. Haiku are all show and no tell. Why? The beauty of a haiku is that it captures a moment as it is. No more. No less. It does not dictate. It does not have an agenda. It simply captures the images of the scene as simply as possible but, as stated above, not as detailed as possible.

4. Haiku must make sense on the first read. Why? The poem is brief. It must be recognizable. It must be simple. It must be identifiable. This does not mean that the haiku is shallow. Far from it. Good haiku have plenty of depth and often get more enjoyable the more you read them. But they are poems of a single breath. And if you lose the brevity, you lose the poem.

5. Haiku are tied to nature. Why? The form began as the first verse of a longer linked poem called a renga. This poem would be written by 3-4 poets who would take turns writing verses. The first verse was called a hokku, and this would be written by the honored guest of the night and would set the season for the renga. Over time, the hokku started to be written as a standalone piece and was later renamed the haiku by master poet Shiki (1867-1902) (Haiku: Ancient & Modern). The nature word or phrase in a haiku is called the kigo. It is common for many haiku to share the same kigo, which is a unique component to haiku. It does not mean that the poet is lacking in originality, rather it is a binding element of the form that binds the poets and poems to each other just as they are bound to the elements that give them form. In my own writing, I find that, because haiku make me acutely aware of my surroundings, I cannot help but avoid nature and find that I write seasonally.

Form I have waited awhile before mentioning the one thing people know most about haiku and that is what is known as 5-7-5. For most people, this is the golden rule of haiku. What does this mean? It means that haiku is defined as a short form poem written in three lines where the first line must be five syllables long, the second line must be seven syllables long, and the third another five syllables.

Haiku are much more than a 5-7-5 format, which means that you can't throw anything into a 5-75 format and call it a haiku. Many make this mistake. In fact, most serious haiku written outside of Japanese for the last 30-40 years has been written in more of a free verse fashion. The reason is that linguistically it is impossible to match the metric structure of Japanese. English, for example, cannot do it.

Our syllables are too long. So most haiku poets have abandoned this and concentrated on everything else that makes a haiku a haiku.

So what is that? The editorial staff at Modern Haiku, one of the most respected journals today, describe it like this: Haiku is a brief verse that epitomizes a single moment. It uses the juxtaposition of two concrete images, often a universal condition of nature and a particular aspect of human

106 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal experience, in a way that prompts the reader to make an insightful connection between the two. (http://www.modernhaiku.org/submissions.html) The following three examples show the main gist of this type of three line haiku. This, again, consists of two images that are tied together by a third image/line called the cutting word/line. The idea is to have two separate images that are tied together by the cutting word/line making the first two become more than the sum of their parts. This provides the pop or “haiku moment” that makes the poem work.

The order of the images and cutting word is not important. In the following three examples, the cutting line is used in all three line positions. That said, these examples do not represent the only way to write a haiku. There are single line, two line, and four line haiku out there, but once you start to get a handle on this three-line format, the rest starts to open up to you and the possibilities of other kinds begin to become clear.

Three Haiku by Ben Moeller-Gaa Illustrate the Two Image + Cutting Line Format (image 1) (image 2) (cutting line)

a little frog on our sundial passing time

"a little frog" appears in Notes from the Gean: 3:2 (2011) * anniversary an old dress on the line fills with wind

(cutting line) (image 1) (image 2)

"anniversary" appears in The Heron's Nest: XII:I (2010) * what she said driving home the sound of blinkers

(image 1) (cutting line) (image 2)

"what she said" appears in The Heron's Nest: XII:4 (2010) The Three S’s of Haiku Language Another set of guidelines to keep in mind as you write haiku are the Three S’s on how language is used: Simple, Succinct, and Suggestive. To illustrate these things, I want to use my frog poem from above: a little frog on our sundial passing time 1. Simple — Use simple language. Steer clear of words that require footnotes to understand. You have got a single breath of a moment with the reader’s attention and make the most of it. In the example above, there is not a single word that should not be familiar to any English speaker who reads it.

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2. Succinct — Use only the words that are necessary and nothing more. If you look at this poem, there are not long descriptions of anything, there is not an overabundance of detail. The moment is presented just as it is and nothing more.

3. Suggestive — This is perhaps the biggest piece of haiku mechanics and one that takes the longest to master. It is also the culmination of the first two S’s. Suggestive language means that you are able to give the reader just enough information to know exactly what you are referring to and allow them to enter into the moment presented and fill that moment in with their life and their experience of the world.

In the example above, the first line of the poem is “a little frog.” It assumes that the reader knows what a little frog looks like, and the haiku relies on the reader to fill in all the details about the frog themselves. If asked, you could probably describe the frog you see in great detail. The same thing goes for the second line, “on our sundial.” There is no description about what the sundial looks like. That is entirely up to the reader to determine. And it is okay if the frog and the sundial are different for everyone.

It is okay because these details are not what the poem is about. The poem is about the third line, “passing time,” and, that is the moment that is being witnessed. The rest is entirely up to the reader to fill in.

To further expand on this, we can ask what else is not mentioned in the poem. For starters, it does not present a location. Where does the poem take place? What time of day or year does it occur? The poem suggests a time and a season by the usage of sundial, which works by tracking sunlight, making the moment likely to be taking place during the day. It may, however, also take place at night under a very bright moon. This is entirely up to the reader to decide. As for the season, this is suggested by the kigo frog. Frogs appear in certain times of the year. What time of year that is will depend on the reader that reads the poem.

This notion of the reader having so much say as to what is happening in a haiku may seem novel, but it is an essential component. It allows for the poem to be a sort of conversation between the poet and reader, and it further underscores the shared moment that is being witnessed.

Here are ten more examples of haiku written by other poets from around the globe. They embody the different rules and techniques described above. Take some time to see if you can spot what they are doing and how they work.

Ten more example haiku morning sneeze the guitar in the corner resonates Dee Evetts ~ Haiku: Poetry Ancient & Modern thumbprint left in the candle wax— August heat Jim Kacian ~ Haiku: Poetry Ancient & Modern framing the space where she once was my mother's ring Don McCleod ~ Haiku: Poetry Ancient & Modern a long meeting ice cubes in the jug the first to leave

108 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal Matt Morden ~ Haiku: Poetry Ancient & Modern sunlight bouncing off a rattan chair where dad sat Yinghong Lu ~ World Haiku Review April 2012 forecasted storm... the low-battery in my kindle Connie Donleycott ~ The Heron's Nest XIV:2 evening walk a new shadow at each streetlight Elaine Riddell ~ MU II the flag covered coffin: the shadow of the bugler slips into the grave Nicholas Virgilio ~ The Haiku Anthology writing again the tea water boiled dry William J. Higginson ~ The Haiku Anthology wedding picture each face finds a different camera Lee Gurga ~ The Haiku Anthology Writing Assignment: With all of the above in mind, I would like for you to go back over your list you wrote earlier and see if something looks interesting. See if there is a moment that deserves more attention and start writing.

Perhaps there are two images that go together. Or perhaps an image you wrote down strikes a chord with something else happening in life. Perhaps one of the haiku you have just read has given you an idea.

Reading is such an important part of writing and can be a great teaching tool and resource for working through your own work. I don’t do any writing without having a book or journal on hand to read for that reason. Happy writing!

For additional writing examples, you can then take a look at the following two haiku journals for lots of great examples of fine haiku: The Heron's Nest: www.theheronsnest.comwww.theheronsnest.com Shamrock: http://shamrockhaiku.webs.com World Haiku Review: https://sites.google.com/site/worldhaikureview2/whr/home

109 Resources Haiku: Ancient & Modern, by Jackie Hardy Modern Haiku ~ www.modernhaiku.com Mu ~ www.muhaikujournal.com Notes from the Gean ~ notesfromthegean.com Shamrock ~ http://shamrockhaiku.webs.com The Haiku Anthology, by Cor van den Heuvel The Heron’s Nest ~ www.theheronsnest.com Wasp Shadows ~ by Ben Moeller-Gaa World Haiku Review ~ https://sites.google.com/site/worldhaikureview2/whr/home

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Ten Things to Consider When Considering a Chapbook Ben Moeller-Gaa As poets, poets, there are a number of different ways that we can share our work with others. We can read our work aloud; share it by email, snail mail, text, Facebook, Twitter; getting published in journals both online and in print and through in good old fashioned books. I say old-fashioned, but the book is and will likely always be one of the most prized and coveted of all things to poets. It is where we probably all were first introduced to poetry. Maybe it was a Shel Silverstein or Doctor Seuss book given to us as a child or a classroom textbook or anthology or something shared with us by a friend, parent, or someone else close to us who thought, “You might enjoy this.” And I dare say that every poet and writer out there has dreamed of having one of his or her own.

In the world of poetry, for individual poets, there are two paths you can go down: the individual full-length collection or the individual chapbook. And this talk today is about the chapbook. This type is ripe with possibilities and can be in the reach of anyone who sets out to have one. As with all things in life, there are many different avenues that one can take. I myself have three chapbooks, each of which is very different from the others. The variability and possibilities of a chapbook is what makes them exciting. And for haiku poets, with our poems being as short as they are, I have found that they can provide more exciting possibilities than perhaps our other brothers and sisters in the poetic arts have in front of them. We can do more with less.

With a worldwide open with possibilities, it is sometimes hard to know where to begin. It’s like that shared experience we all have at staring at the blank page where anything can happen. But you have to begin somewhere. And while one option is to open up Google and type in “chapbook,” the following essay will hopefully help you narrow down your initial search to get to a more targeted set of results.

And the more you know about what it is you want, the easier it is to find what you are looking for as well as to find others who can assist you along the way.

The following essay is meant to give you some guidance with this. This list of Ten Things to Consider when Considering a Chapbook are things that I found helpful and are lessons learned from my own experiences. It is my hope that by sharing them it will lead to more books and more sharing of work and thus expanding the great conversation of letters that we contribute to.

The list: 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

What is a chapbook?

Why do I want to do a chapbook?

What does a chapbook look like to me?

How much time do I want to put into my chapbook?

How much control over my chapbook do I want to have?

What poems should go into my chapbook?

How do I arrange the poems in my chapbook?

How do I pick a title for my chapbook?

How do I tell people about my chapbook?

Now that I have a chapbook, what’s next?

The front five things on the list are setup to be introspective with the back five being more tactical.

111 The Front Five 1. What is a chapbook?

This is the best place to start because you will need to know how to answer this question. Trust me. Outside of the world of literature, people have no idea what this is and when you tell your family and friends and others that you have published a chapbook, they are going to ask, “What’s a chapbook?”

Thankfully, as haiku poets, we are familiar with being asked this type of question. Who among you haven’t been asked by someone after you tell them you write haiku, “What’s a haiku?” So, what is a chapbook? Here are two definitions: A) Academic (from the Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory by J. A. Cuddon) chapbook - A form of popular literature hawked by pedlars or chapmen, mostly from the 16th to the 18c. Chapbooks consisted of ballads, pamphlets, tracts, nursery rhymes and fairy stories (qq.v.). They were often illustrated with wood-blocks and were sold at a penny to sixpence. Old romances like Bevis of Hampton and Guy of Warwick were favourites. (p.135) While this is a nice and historical look at a chapbook, it seems to put them clearly in the past tense and will not help you much in elevator talk conversations. But I included it here because, well, it’s nice to know where things come from. That said, here is a second definition in my own words: B) Practical: chapbook - A chapbook is a short collection of poetry by a single poet, generally between 10ish to 35ish poems in length. That’s it. The poems can be professionally printed, hand bound, carved on wood, etched in stone, hand painted on found objects and/or fully digitized and pixelated. There are publishers who specialize in chapbooks both in print and on-line. There are handmade communities out there who are in love with them. Check out Pinterest or Etsy for some great examples.

2. Why do I want to do a chapbook?

There is no wrong reason to want to do a chapbook. Some common reasons are: a) b) c) d) e)

You have a series of poems on a specific theme.

You want to have a small collection of your work to share with family and friends.

You love making things and the idea of hand making a book sounds like fun.

You would like to have a collection of your work to sell or hand out at readings.

You are looking to get a full-length collection of poems published, and a chapbook feels like a good first step to gain notice for your work. f) It’s a book. I’m a poet. I want in. ’nuff said.

Feel free to check off as many reasons that apply.

3. What does a chapbook look like to me?

As mentioned above, there are a number of different options out there for chapbooks. Having an idea as to what kind of book you’d like to have is the key to narrowing down that theoretical Google search results list. Here are some options to get your brain in gear: a) I want something in paper that I can hold in my hand. b) I mainly read ebooks and want something I can have on my Kindle or iPad.

112 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal c) I think it would be cool to have my chapbook be an art project that challenges the notion of what a book can be. d) I want my chapbook to look good on my bookshelf with other books of mine, with the title down the spine. e) I want my chapbook to be something my friends can buy on Amazon. f) I would love to experiment with different types of bookbinding.

There is a really cool letter press print shop in town that it would be fun to make a book with. g) I have an artist friend that I thought would be fun to create a book with as their art and my poetry are a natural fit together.

This is just a short list that I came up with. I am sure that there are many other possibilities out there, and if you can dream it, you can make it happen.

4. How much time do I want to put into the book making process?

By now, you may have started to get an idea as to the possibilities that await you, and dreaming things up is part of the fun part. There is another side to that dream, though, which is the practical part: no matter which option or avenue you want to go down, there will be work involved. It is important to be honest with yourself as to what you want to spend your time on. It is also worth noting that how much work you want to put into the chapbook doesn’t necessarily equate to how good the end product will be.

It is really about figuring out where you feel your strengths might be. It may be that you are interested in putting your poems together and would like to have a traditional publisher handle the formatting, font selecting, cover design, and getting the book out there to the world. You may also be interested in sending your collection to a chapbook contest where, if you win, your book will be published and these things will all be taken care of for you. Partnering with other people such as artists or print shops can help you collaborate on the book, and you share the workload. Online self-publication sites like Lulu and CreateSpace also offer lots of templates and formatting options for you to choose from should you wish to go that route. These can lead to beautiful print books or ebooks. If art projects and exploration of bookbinding is your thing or sounds interesting, then there are plenty of resources at your disposal with a narrowed Google Search of “how do I bind my own book?”

5. How much control do I want to have over my chapbook?

This is a good follow-up to the work question, and what I mean here is that different avenues give you different amounts of control over your work. Should you win a contest, the book will receive a set number of printings, say, 100 copies, and that will be it for the book. Are you okay with that? If so, fantastic! Same thing for working with traditional publishing companies. They may have a limited run that they do for any given chapbook. They may also keep things open ended. It depends on what their business guidelines are and these are important to read when considering a press. Royalties are also something to look into when dealing with traditional publishers. That said, it is important to keep in mind that you are producing a book of poetry and any dreams of making millions should be set aside.

Other aspects of the “control” question have to do with how set you are with the manuscript you come up with. If you are open for editorial guidance and collaboration, then traditional publishers are fantastic. They may re-order the poems, cut poems and ask for new ones, and be good guides to improve the quality of your manuscript. This type of arrangement doesn’t sit well with all poets, though, and if that makes your heart race and gets your palms sweaty, then self-publishing is likely the better avenue for you.

This gives you control over all aspects of the chapbook, including how many copies get printed, and where and how the chapbook can be sold. It will also give you a more narrowed Google Search of “how do I self-publish my chapbook.”

113 This concludes the front five reflective steps on the list. Now, it is time to switch gears to some tactical topics that you’ll need to think through regardless of what type of chapbook you choose to do.

The Back Five 6. What poems go into my chapbook?

This is a classic question. It is similar to “What poems should I submit to Modern Haiku?” The answer is the best of what you have to offer. Start with first figuring out if your book will be on a specific theme or not. If you decide upon a theme, then pull out all the poems you have around that theme. Be sure to start with the ones you have previously published in journals. They are the obvious strong ones as they have already been preselected by editors to be good. But don’t be exclusive to this list. Sometimes a poem that got passed over by journals is perfect for a book as it becomes stronger in the context of your other poems. If you do not have a specific theme, then pull out your favorites. They are the ones that you would best want to showcase you in a collection.

The next thing you would want to keep in mind is how long the book is going to be. If the book will be 20 poems long, pick out 30 to 40 poems to look over. I have found it better to start with a bigger pool and narrow things down. It forces you to make tough choices as to what makes the cut and what does not and to really think through the pieces as a collection instead of a random sampling. If you are having difficulties narrowing things down, asking for help is always a good idea. Choose folks you trust with your work that know you to look over the 30-40 you selected and see if they can help you narrow the list to hit 20.

7. How do I arrange the poems in my chapbook?

Since our poetic form is short, write down the poems that make the cut on individual notecards. If they have been previously published, put the publication credit on the back. You will find great satisfaction in handwriting the note cards. It will allow you to really feel each letter and word of your poems anew and will allow you to storybook the poems.

What is story booking? I call this the process of putting all of your notecard poems out in front of you on a table or on the floor and sitting over them and rearranging them in different ways until they have a nice flow to them. This is truly an art. And if you have any experience in your past of making a Mixed Tape or Mixed CD or any type of musical playlist where you have your opening song and move through a flow of tunes until the end, this is sort of the same idea. You want the poems to have a flow to them. It could be a narrative structure, it could be a movement through the course of a day or the seasons, or it could simply be by the tone or moods of the poems. Having the poems on notecards will allow you to play with the formatting in different ways and you can see the flow take shape. If you still have difficulties, stack them up and shuffle the deck and see if the universe lends a hand. Again, there is no right or wrong way to do this so have fun and keep going until you get something that feels right.

Please note: If you are submitting your book to a publisher, it may be in their submission guidelines that they will do the sort order for you. In this case, submit to them the number of poems they require and then be open to working with them through this process.

8. How do I pick a title for my chapbook?

I have found that the best titles come from a line or phrase of one of the poems in the book. This seems to be the common practice for poetry books of all types, not just chapbooks. So look for a compelling line or phrase that it catchy, punchy, and grabs your attention. Running titles by friends is also a fun thing to do.

114 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal All three of my chapbooks have titles taken from poems within the collection: Wasp Shadows afternoon heat wasp shadows in the curtains Blowing on a Hot Soup Spoon winter wind blowing on a hot soup spoon Fiddle in the Floorboards pub crawl feeling the fiddle in the floorboards 9. How do I tell people about my chapbook?

Getting the word out that you have a chapbook will depend upon who you want your chapbook to be for. If you are doing this book for yourself, then you don’t need to tell anyone. If it’s something that you want to have for your friends and family, then reaching out to them by the normal means of email, phone calls or in-person gatherings is the way to go. You can throw a book release party as well and invite family and friends where you can do a reading of the book and sell and sign copies for them. This could also be opened up to the public should you choose to do so, and you put the event in your local paper and online city events calendars. The other way is to promote the book through Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram and have a Facebook Author’s page or even your own website that you can direct people to. If the book is available on a Publisher’s web site, definitely direct people to that site to order copies. If the book is available on Amazon or other online bookstores, direct people to those as well. Local independent bookstores are also are good spots to get your books placed. Talk with the owner about consignment, which can go two ways. They will either buy the books from you at a set price and then they sell them in their shop or they will sell the books in the store for you, with them taking a cut, and then they will transfer your profits to you through an arranged process. If you would like to get your book into your local library, speak with a librarian on what their process is.

In all cases, whether you self-publish or work with a publisher, you will be the primary driver in selling your book. This is simply the fact of the matter and is the case for most authors regardless of the genre. If the goal is to sell copies, the more poems you have published ahead of time in journals will mean that there are more people that know your name and who may more likely to want a collection of your work. They like what they have seen and want more of it. I know that is how I usually buy books of poetry. I know or like the poet’s work that I have seen around and want more of it. Also, if you have the opportunity to give readings and take part of poetry reading series in your area, that also increases exposure of you and your work and will increase your audience. In the process, you will meet and be exposed to lots of other poets and their work. Being a regular audience member at a local reading series or two is a great way to work your way into being able to read at one. Again, these things are only really relevant should you want to sell copies and by no means does this have to be your goal.

115 10. Now that I have a chapbook, what’s next?

Now that you have a chapbook and you have gotten it into the hands of the audience you wanted it to reach, take a step back and reflect on the process. You did it. You have your own chapbook. This is a major accomplishment for any poet. Savor it and be proud. If, at some point, you get the inkling to do another chapbook, you now will know how to do it. Perhaps for your next book you would like to try a different book type and have a different publishing experience. Or perhaps this will lead you to set your eyes on a full length collection. The future is yours for the taking.

Online Resources: 1. Chapbook Publishers: www.poetrysociety.org/psa/poetry/resources/chapbook_publishers/ www.pw.org/small_presses www.everywritersresource.com/chapbooks.html www.newpages.com/book-publishers/ www.foldedword.com www.yavanikapress.wixsite.com/home www.snapshotpress.co.uk www.turtlelightpress.com www.bottlerocketspress.com 2. Handmade Chapbooks: www.etsy.com (search Chapbook) www.pinterest.com (search Chapbook ~ *requires registration) 3. How to Make Your Own Chapbook: www.pinterest.com/jkfalkner/make-your-own-chapbook/ keithswilson.blogspot.com/2009/08/making-your-own-poetry-chapbooks.html (Great Read!) www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/bestbook/chapter21.html (Great Read!)

4. Self-Publishing Companies: www.lulu.com www.blurb.com www.xlibris.com kdp.amazon.com 5. MIT On-Line Course on Chapbooks: http://web.mit.edu/21h.418/www/nhausman/chap1.html 6. Books on Bookbinding: Booklyn Educational Manual ***ABRIDGED*** by the Booklyn Artists Alliance ~ booklyn.org (This book is $5.00 on the website plus S&H) “Fantastic book,” Stanford Forrester Copied, Bound & Numbered by Cherryl Moote ISBN 978-0-9688811-7-0 Bookbinding: A Step-by-Step Guide by Kathy Abott ISBN 9781847971531 7. Bookmaking Material Resources Sites: www.johnnealbooks.com www.jerrysartarama.com www.dickblick.com www.michaels.com

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How I Write a Poem Terrie Jacks I do not know if I have any secrets on how to write. It just comes to me sometimes, sort of like this article on how to write. I am putting down what comes to me. Sometimes I will form an idea for a poem, but nothing comes. I let it root around in my mind for a period. Then when I least expect it, a verse will start erupting. I immediately run for pen and paper. This is very annoying because many times it happens in the middle of the night. I wonder if Billy Joel’s song “In the Middle of the Night” came about this way. Other writers have mentioned that inspiration wakes them in the middle of the night.

Mary Higgins Clark gets up early to write her mystery stories. In the summer, I’m often on my porch writing before dawn. spring among the branches the twitter of Tweeters A friend once told me in a writing class, “You can write about anything. I can give you a word, and you can make a poem about it.” During that session, someone mentioned hoopteedoodle. That word is fun and what my poem “Occasionally One Has to…” is all about. A poem about a person being interviewed because of her involvement in hoopteedoodle. Sometimes I will find a fun word in the dictionary, a book I often use because I can’t spell. Yes, I use the dictionary. I also use a thesaurus, both in paperback and on the computer.

Occasionally One Has to…

For all this nonsense.

“Why did I do it?”

Said a waving Oopseydoodle, “Well, you know…

Occasionally one has to Hoopteedoodle” Other times I will go to one of those sites with ideas for poems. They kick start my mind. It may not be an enthralling verse, but it gives my mind something to root around about. Usually there is a second verse that is better than the first.

Another Cuppa My second cup of coffee, is it better than the first?

My second cup of coffee, couldn’t be any worse.

My second cup of coffee, the jitters I do have.

117 My second cup of coffee, spilling it is bad.

My third cup of coffee, I’m off the launching pad.

Varoom!

When I write haiku and senryu, I seek out online journals for inspiration. It helps me to call up the proper mojo. writing haiku wrapping my mind around three lines Mostly, I write often. I scribble out poems on paper, envelopes, the computer. Usually I do it every day. My suggestion to you if you want to write: Do it. Do it often. Scribble out poems, stories, or whatever. Do it. Do it. Do it.

In my minute left I’ve nothing to decree only that glib, old respond, “Hope you have a good day” (From my poem “30 Minutes”)

Grace E. Green, “Pere Marquette Fall, IL”

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Kigo Usage in Haiku Bryan Rickert Oftentimes Japanese poetry uses a word or a phrase that is associated with one of the four seasons. This word or phrase is referred to as a “kigo.” Although there are many aspects to the writing of haiku poetry, it could be said that the kigo is the most important. Many people feel that without a seasonal reference a haiku ceases to be a haiku and becomes something else entirely. If good haiku is seen as an expression of the poet’s experience and his or her connection to nature, then it is the kigo that bridges the gap between the two. In the most basic cases, the kigo will set the scene for the time of year when the poem was written, but when done correctly, the kigo can impart a larger aspect of depth and emotion to a haiku. That being said, the names of the four seasons (winter, spring, summer and autumn) have limited emotional content. This is where other seasonal ideas come into play. For example, often you will find haiku poems that reference plum or cherry blossoms. These trees are the first trees to flower in Japan. As a kigo, the plum and cherry blossom make reference to a new spring or indicate that winter is finally over. As a cultural idea, cherry blossoms are traditionally seen in Japan as a symbol of how fleeting our lives can be. The blossom is intensely beautiful but fragile and short lived. In the grander scheme of things, our lives can be seen in much the same way. A kigo that references a season indirectly can impact ideas and emotions in a much more targeted way. This will make the haiku more accessible to the reader, and the reader will be able to empathize and find their own space within the poem.

As a lifelong nature lover, I did not think this would be a very great challenge when I first started writing haiku. Over the years, I have come to understand that finding the right kigo can be extremely difficult, and it can take a lot of soul searching to really understand what it is I am trying to communicate with a specific haiku. When I had just started writing haiku, I came up with this unsuccessful poem: baggage claim I unpack the smell of the sea Needless to say, I had a wonderful moment when a vacation was over. I unzipped my luggage and out wafted the smell of the island I had just left. I loved this. Also, it is needless to say that it was rejected by every haiku journal on the planet. I still loved the essence of it, so I spent more time with the poem, wondering what it was that I really wanted it to say and thinking about why it was rejected. In writing it, I had assumed that using the words “baggage claim” and “unpacking” referred to my vacation being over, and that was my kigo. The truth is that people fly throughout the whole year and unzip bags every day.

These words said nothing and imparted no emotional content relative to the moment that I loved so much.

Realizing there was no real kigo and nothing specific for the reader to grasp onto, I ended up changing it to this: summer’s end I unpack the smell of the sea (The Heron’s Nest 18.3, 2016) The very next time it was submitted for publication, it was accepted. I believe that changing the first line to “summer’s end” linked it to a specific time of year and also allowed readers to access their own emotions related to their experiences of that time of year. Many people have an emotional connection to the idea of the end of summer and of vacations when the months of fun are over and the colder months lie

119 ahead. This kigo helped to frame and to give context to the next lines of the poem that express the moment that I loved so much.

In today’s internet age, there are endless opportunities to explore traditional Japanese kigo and nontraditional kigo that haiku poets are using around the world. Reading these kigo can help to diversify our haiku writing and explore our relationship with the world around us.

Grace E. Green, “Rocky Mountain National Park, CO” (2)

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Notes on Contributors

_________________________________________________

“A minute’s success pays the failure of years.”

—Yogi Berra (1812-89) “If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time or the tools to write.”

—Stephen King (1947- ) “There are two kinds of people, those who finish what they start and so on.” ―Robert Byrne (1930-2016)

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Billy J. Adams writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. He was ordained to the Gospel Ministry in 1971 and has served churches in Missouri for thirty years. He is currently serving as a chaplain for the Civil Air Patrol; the CAP chaplain service is part of the USAF chaplain service. His work has appeared in poetry journals, newspapers, and a book series by Guidepost. He has also published one book of poetry and nonfiction stories, Around the Mulberry Bush. A former president of the Missouri State Poetry Society (MSPS), he currently resides in Cherokee Village, AR. Faye Adams is a freelance writer who has published three poetry chapbooks and five hardback books: one children’s book, a book of poetry, and three books of poetry and nonfiction. She also writes fiction and memoirs. Faye has won numerous awards for poetry, fiction, and nonfiction and has published in local newspapers and in magazines, poetry journals and anthologies. She has been named Senior Poet Laureate of Missouri twice, has helped conduct poetry workshops in classrooms and for writers groups, and serves as an Advisory Board Member of the Missouri State Poetry Society (MSPS). Faye served as co-editor of the MSPS Annual Anthology of Poetry and Nonfiction published by the De Soto chapter, On the Edge. She currently resides in Cherokee Village, AR. Jo A. Baldwin has a B.A. in English from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee (UWM), an M.A. in Creative Writing from UWM, an M.A. in Speech Theatre from Marquette University in Milwaukee, a Ph.D. in English from UWM, and a Master of Divinity from United Theological Seminary in Dayton, Ohio. A Professor of English and Director of the Writing Center at Mississippi Valley State in Itta Bena, she is the first to author a book on “Tuning,” Seven Signature Sermons by a Tuning Woman Preacher of the Gospel, which is a homiletics text published by Edwin Mellen. Her latest published book is Bible Verses Given to Me: A Memoir (Nashville: AMEC Sunday School Union).

Born in 1944 of an Italian immigrant father and a German heritage mother in the ending years of WW II, M.J. Becco grew up on a small, southeast Kansas subsistence farm. The first of her family to graduate from college, she became a teacher in 1967. After teaching in both high school and college, Becco joined the U.S. Army in 1973, one of the first WAC’s to become an Army Engineer, working in electronics and teaching in military schools and units. She traveled extensively, visiting 27 foreign countries during her 20 years in the service. Becco married in the service and had a daughter in 1981. In 1994, she retired from the service and settled in Springfield, MO. She was divorced in 1995, raised her daughter as a single parent, and has one granddaughter. Becco began writing poetry seriously in 2000 with the support of two writing groups, the Springfield Writers Guild and Poets and Friends of Springfield.

Akerke Boltabekova is an undergraduate student completing an English major at Mississippi Valley State University (MVSU). She is a participant of a special program called Double Diploma, which will allow her to receive her bachelor degree in May 2019 from both MVSU and Kazakh State Women’s Teacher Training University. Boltabekova has previously published a poetry translation project in the Republican magazine of Kazakhstan: English Language, translated from Kazakh language into English, in association with U.S. professor Dr. Deborah Ford.

Lori Becherer is a life-long resident of southern Illinois residing on her family farm where she and her husband farm the land and raise beef cattle. She is employed by BJC Healthcare as a medical coder. Her hobbies include gardening, art and poetry. She is a member of the Heartland Women’s Writers Guild and the Haiku Society of America. Her poetry and haiku have been published in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Heron’s Nest, bottle rockets, Acorn, Prune Juice, Chrysanthemum, cattails and other publications.

Pat Durmon is the author of Blind Curves (2007), Lights and Shadows in a Nursing Home (2013), Push Mountain Road (2015), and Women, Resilient Women (2018). Poems have been published in Rattle, Main Street Rag, Poetry East, Cyclamens and Blades, Between the Lines, Lucidity, and other journals.

122 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal She is the recipient of the Sybil Nash Abrams Award (2007) and the Merit Award (2013), given by Poets Roundtable of Arkansas. Durmon is retired from mental health counseling and currently facilitates two groups: Searching for Light (support group) and Sisters Journey Group (spiritual growth group). She is a native Arkansan and lives in the Ozarks with her husband. She sees herself as lighter and more joyful after writing a poem.

James Fowler teaches literature at the University of Central Arkansas. His literary essays have appeared in ANQ, Children’s Literature, and The Classical Outlook; his personal essays in Southern Cultures, Cadillac Cicatrix, Quirk, and Under the Sun; his short stories in such journals as The Labletter, Anterior Review, Little Patuxent Review, Best Indie Lit New England, Line Zero, The Chariton Review, the Southern Review, Riding Light Review, and Elder Mountain; and his poems in such journals as Futures Trading Magazine, Aji Magazine, Cantos, Dash, Valley Voices, Sheila-Na-Gig, Common Ground Review, Angry Old Man Magazine, and Cave Region Review.

Grace E. Green was born and raised in Saint Louis, Missouri. She received her Bachelor of Arts in Psychology from Taylor University and a Master of Arts in Counseling from Missouri Baptist University.

Grace loves investing in student lives as an advisor at Missouri Baptist University. She also enjoys spending her time exploring the outdoors. She loves to travel, bicycle, hike, and swim. She is passionate about finding beauty in God’s creation and in the people around her. She hopes you will enjoy the beauty in her photographs published in the current issue of Cantos.

Paulette Guerin is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Florida. She lives in Arkansas and teaches English at Harding University. Inspired by Thoreau’s Walden, she is building a tiny cabin on seven acres (with pond) and blogging about the experience at pauletteguerinbane.wordpress.com. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets 2018, ep;phany, Concho River Review, The Tishman Review, 2 River View, and others. She also has a chapbook, Polishing Silver.

John J. Han (Ph.D., University of Nebraska-Lincoln) is Professor of English & Creative Writing and Chair of the Humanities Division at Missouri Baptist University. He is the author, editor, co-editor, or translator of 21 books, including Wise Blood: A Re-Consideration (Rodopi, 2011), The Final Crossing: Death and Dying in Literature (Peter Lang, 2015) and Worlds Gone Awry: Essays on Dystopian Fiction (McFarland, 2018). Han’s poems have also appeared in periodicals and anthologies worldwide, including Akitsu Quarterly, Failed Haiku, Frogpond, Haiku Page, Kansas English, The Laurel Review, Modern Haiku, POMPA, Steinbeck Studies, Valley Voices, and World Haiku Review.

Carol Sue Horstman, a graduate of Washington University in St. Louis, is a sculptor, painter, filmmaker, photographer, poet, and illustrator. After teaching all of these subjects, as well as music, for forty years, she retired to become an independent artist pursuing sculpture sites in communities and gallery venues.

Carol exhibits large steel sculptures in public parks and private collections and has constructed a 96pound book of milled steel that has garnered many awards; the pages turn, and the book is called My Mystery. Carol has been published as a newspaper cartoonist as well as in the NLAPW magazine. She is a member of the On the Edge poetry group in De Soto, Missouri, which she finds is friendly and supportive.

Donald W. Horstman has been an artist for sixty-six years and an art educator for forty-seven years. He holds a bachelor’s degree in art education from Washington University in St. Louis and a master’s degree in media technology from Webster University in St. Louis. In addition to printmaking and poetry, Donald specializes in sculpture, film, photography, painting, ceramics, and drawing. He shares a studio with his wife Carol in their home on beautiful Lake Fond Du Lac located in Fenton, Missouri. Visit www.art4you.phanfare.com.

123 Terrie Jacks graduated from the University of Missouri with a B.S. in Education. She has taught school, substituted, and currently volunteers as an Oasis Tutor. She has lived in several different states and spent several years in England. When her two sons were young, she made up stories to entertain them. Now her grandchildren give her inspiration for stores and poems. Her poems have been published in Cantos, Fireflies’ Light, Oasis Journal, Spare Mule, Grist, Cattails, Failed Haiku, and Galaxy of Verse. Some of her stories have appeared in The Right Words and Flash. For several years, she illustrated Korean folktales retold by John Han that were published in the Korean-American Journal. She continues to illustrate her poems and sometimes enters them in local art exhibits.

Raymond Kirk is a pharmacist in Noel, Missouri. After retiring from the military, he continued his education and began his quest into his current profession at the University of Kansas. Shortly after graduation, he began his involvement with the music industry. His interest in poetry and song lyrics became a prolific undertaking. He is currently working toward publication of two separate series of books.

Emily Lu doubled majored in Dramatic Writing and History at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, where she received her BFA in 2015. Before continuing her aspiring career as a historian with a focus on East Asia, she moved to Japan and worked as an English teacher for two years, during which time she traveled extensively throughout East Asia. Now attending East Tennessee State University, Emily is working on her Master’s Thesis on writing system evolution in Korea. She plans on eventually pursuing a Ph.D. degree and become a professor of history.

James Maxfield has taught English composition, creative writing, and other undergraduate English courses at a number of colleges and universities in Ohio. Jim is the author of A Year of the Haiku Journeying to Moonshadow (2014) and Essay Exam Composition: A Preparation and Review Course (DuMonde Education Group, forthcoming fall 2018). He is currently completing two books for publication: A History and Anthology of Folk-Rock Lyricism (a book all about the 1960s) and Poetry in Mind (a book of insights into the philosophy of writing poetry).

Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah is the author of the new hybrid works, The Sun of a Solid Torus, Conductor 5, Genus for L Loci, and Handlebody. His individual poems are widely published and recently appeared in Rigorous, Beautiful Cadaver Project Pittsburgh, The Meadow, Juked, North Dakota Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Sandy River Review, Strata Magazine, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, etc. He is an algebraist and artist and lives in the southern part of Ghana, Spain, and Turtle Mountains, North Dakota.

Ben Moeller-Gaa is a haiku poet whose full-length collection from Folded Word, Wishbones (2018), won the 2018 Touchstone Award. He is also the author of three haiku chapbooks, Fiddle in the Floorboards (Yavanika Press, 2018), the Pushcart-nominated Wasp Shadows (Folded Word, 2014), and Blowing on a Hot Soup Spoon (poor metaphor design, 2014). A native of Belleville, Illinois, he graduated from the Knox College Creative Writing Program, and his haiku, essays, and reviews have appeared in over forty journals worldwide, including Acorn, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, December, and World Haiku Review, as well as in several anthologies, including Haiku 21, A New Resonance 9, and Red Moon Press’s annual “Best of English Language Haiku.” You can find more on Ben online at www.benmoellergaa.com.

After receiving her Bachelor of Arts in Mass Communication with a minor in English from Maryville University and her Master of Arts in English from Saint Louis University, Paula Nunning taught at the college and university levels for the next fourteen years at several institutions, including Maryville University, Southern Illinois University-Edwardsville, University of Missouri-St. Louis, and Saint Louis Community College. Today she is pleased to be an Adjunct Professor of English at Missouri Baptist

124 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal University. During her teaching career, she has been charged with teaching Business Writing, Developmental Writing, Composition I and II, Journalism, Writing Lab, and with creating her murder mystery course. An accomplished organist and keyboardist, she is writing an autobiographical book for instructors.

Thomas B. Richardson teaches English at The Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science in Columbus, Mississippi. He holds degrees from Millsaps College, Vanderbilt University, and Mississippi University for Women, where he also recently defended his MFA thesis poetry collection, How to Read. His poetry, which has appeared in a small handful of journals, often focuses on teaching and learning, religion, and the South. Other writing interests include new media, humor, and sports journalism. Thomas has also served as an editor for Ponder Review and Dirty Paws Poetry Review.

Bryan Rickert is a haiku poet who lives in Belleville, Illinois. He has been writing haiku, senryu, and haibun since 2012. In the last three years, Bryan has been published in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Acorn, Akitsu Quarterly, The Heron’s Nest, Prune Juice, Failed Haiku, Contemporary Haibun Online, Atoms of Haiku III, Horizon: The Haiku Anthology, Taj Mahal Review, and a number of other fine journals and anthologies. His poetry collection Fish Kite (2018) is available through Cyberwit Publishing.

Anna Roberts Wells was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, and grew up in a nearby farming community.

She attended Little Rock Central High School, graduating the year the school was embroiled in the integration crisis. She graduated from Hendrix College with a degree in English and taught junior high English and speech for one year. She left the teaching field and became a social worker in the foster care system. After attending graduate school at the University of Tennessee, she lived in several states before settling in St. Louis. Anna is married and has four grown children and four grandchildren. She presently is retired and living in Festus, Missouri, where she does volunteer work and writes. She is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) and On the Edge chapter of the Missouri State Poetry Society.

Destiney Sharkey is an English major with concentration in creative writing at Mississippi Valley State University. She is currently a junior holding a few academic awards such as being one of three Departmental Outstanding Scholars. She was also chosen to present an essay in the 2019 Conference for Mississippi Philosophical Association. She aspires to be an effective English professor and professional writer.

Harding Stedler graduated in 1976 with his Ph.D. from Florida State University with a major in English Education. He spent thirty-four years teaching writing classes under the umbrella of the English Department and retired from teaching at Shawnee State University in Portsmouth, Ohio, in 1995.

Following retirement, he made Arkansas his retirement home. Stedler has published over 1,000 original poems in over 300 literary journals. Of the published number, the following poems received Pushcart nominations: “Six Dozen Flies to Make a Meal,” “Through Aromas of Bubbling Yeast,” and “Poems from the Deep.”

John Zheng is editor of Sonia Sanchez’s Poetic Spirit through Haiku (Lexington Books, 2017), African American Haiku: Cultural Visions (UP of Mississippi, 2016), Conversations with Sterling Plumpp (UP of Mississippi, 2016), and The Other World of Richard Wright: Perspectives on His Haiku (UP of Mississippi, 2011). He teaches at Mississippi Valley State University, where he serves as editor for two literary and scholarly journals: Valley Voices: A Literary Review and Journal of Ethnic American Literature.

125 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal Submission Guidelines

Cantos, a journal published annually by Missouri Baptist University, welcomes submissions by writers and visual artists. Send previously unpublished poems, short fiction, excerpts from a novel in progress, and nonfiction as e-mail attachments (Microsoft Word format) to the editor, John J. Han, at john.han@mobap.edu by March 15. Send previously unpublished artwork, including haiga (illustrated haiku), as an e-mail attachment to the editor, John J. Han, at mbujournals@gmail.com by the same date.

Write “Cantos [year]: your name” in the subject line. (For example, “Cantos 2020: Ben Moeller-Gaa”).

We do not accept Google Drive files and do not accept hard-copy materials of any kind; upon arrival, hard copies will be recycled. Along with your work, submit a 100-word author bio written in third person. Our target publication date is July 15.

Our review time is approximately one month; earlier submissions receive priority consideration. There is no monetary compensation for contributors. Those who are selected for publication receive one complimentary copy of the issue in which their work appears. The editorial team evaluates all submissions for suitability, content, organization, structure, clarity, style, mechanics, and grammar. We do not consider submissions that include profanity or foul language.

Poetry: We welcome poems that pay attention to both form and content, that can appeal to a broad range of educated readers, and that are neither inexplicable nor simplistic. Poems should consist of 40 or fewer lines; limit up to seven poems per submission. Indicate the form used in the poem parenthetically after the title.

Prose: We value submissions written in lucid, precise, and concise style. Prose works that contain a number of grammatical and mechanical mistakes will not be considered. Place serial commas to separate all items in a list (as in “poetry, short fiction, and nonfiction”). Use curved quotes (curly quotes) for quotation marks and apostrophes: Opening quotation marks should look like 66 (“), closing quotation marks should look like 99 (”), opening apostrophes should look like 9 (’til), and apostrophes indicating the possessive case should look like 9 (Emily’s, not Emily's). Periods and commas are placed inside quotation marks (“It is very simple,” the goblin replied. “I can easily shrink my body and get inside the jar.”). Press the tab key once for the first line of a new paragraph, and leave two (not one, not three) spaces between sentences.

We prefer MLA (Modern Language Association) style for citation.

Fiction and nonfiction should be fewer than 2,000 words each. We consider up to three works from each author.

Essays for the section “On Writing Creatively” (2,500-5,000 words each) are normally written by invitation. However, established writers and poets who wish to provide our readers with creative writing tips are welcome to contact the editor before submission.

Visual Art: We consider single images, picture essays, and haiga. Single images should be titled, and images used in picture essays must be explained within the narrative. We prefer docx for drawings and jpeg for photos.

Currently, we are not seeking cover images.