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Tish Davis

Rebound and Echo

The Artistry of Repetition in Tanka Prose

Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash

Back in September 2008, Haibun Today founder and editor Jeffrey Woodward wrote an editorial in which he discussed a relatively new form, tanka prose. At the time I’d only written haibun, but I had seen examples of tanka prose in online journals and discussion groups, and I was intrigued by its possibilities. Woodward was one of the first to try to differentiate between it and haibun, and the following passage caught my attention:

For reasons not entirely clear to me, tanka more easily adhere to other tanka than one haiku to another; tanka more readily join together in sequence or sets than do haiku. Compare the classical norms for tanka and haiku—31 and 17 syllables respectively—and one sees that a tanka is roughly double the length of haiku. Tanka is at once more expansive and more lyrical. 1

That inherent lyricism does create a different relationship between poem and prose—it allows the writer to expand upon and add nuance to a topic. In this article, I explore how two writers have used one of the basic lyrical arts, repetition, to add depth and resonance to their tanka prose. To begin, let’s look at the choka.

The choka was an early storytelling form that appeared frequently in the Man’yoshu anthology of early Japanese poetry (645-759). It consisted of alternating lines of 5 to 7 onji (sound units) through which a narrative took shape. It concluded with a hanka, a term that can be translated as “verse that repeats.” As Woodward once noted in an Atlas Poetica interview, that was indeed its purpose: it served as “an envoy . . . intended to recapitulate and amplify the choka ‘s main motifs.”2

The hanka typically consisted of one or more 31-onji poems divided into lines of 5/7/5/7/7—the same form as the traditional Japanese waka or tanka. (One of the Man’yoshu’s most prominent poets, Kakinomoto no Hitomaro, referred to some of his hanka as tanka; the scholar Donald Keene speculated that this might have been done “to indicate the appended poem did not merely repeat the themes of the choka but was to be read as an independent work.”3 Although the choka form fell into disuse early in the Heian period (794 to 1185), its spirit of repetition can still be found in many current tanka prose pieces. Consider the following work by Michael McClintock:


Before Croissants and Coffee 4

Briefly, before the morning commute, before the bakery set out its morning bread to cool on the racks, before the postman’s alarm rang beside his bed, and the dog scratched, wanting out, a summer rain fell on the streets and boulevards of Paris.

You slept—I saw a dream tiptoe upon your brow and would not wake you. I watched alone on the balcony the wet, shining pavements mirror the clouds.

From below
I hear the bread racked
and readied;
across the way a dog
trots from its door.

The postman’s van
speeds by in needful haste:
the rain has ceased,
you awake,
and we embrace.



The prose describes a silent morning that is not yet bustling with the chores of the day. The tanka that follow repeat the images introduced in the prose— bread, postman, dog, rain—but the aural repetition of consonants and vowels enhance the visuals: “the bread racked/and readied,” “a dog/trots from its door.”

Each tanka also contains a contrast in sounds; in each, the “noise” is counterbalanced by gentler tones. In tanka one, the dog’s morning trot offsets the percussive racking of the bread. In tanka two, McClintock transitions from that revved-up engine and allows his readers to imagine the sound of silence: the cessation of rain and of the lovers’ embrace. In this way, the tanka “amplify” upon the narrative introduced in the prose and continue it to a gentle, lyrical conclusion.

Jeffrey Woodward offers a second example of how repetition can contribute to the success of tanka prose. In the following piece, the poet describes a trip through the desert. Here the same prefatory phrase introduces each segment of prose.


Needles by Night 5

coming into Needles at the end of a blistering day via Flagstaff by way of Gallup and before that Taos Pueblo for breakfast and the Sangre de Cristo Range

coming into Needles on the dusty coattail of a bit of night wind and heat lightning the sand kicking up into a dinged-up Mustang convertible to sting a sun-burnt face

where was that village
and when did you pass through
you forget the name
but recall the sign last stop
for water one hundred miles

then a straight line for
that one hundred miles and more
of desert twilight
and every hour or so the ghost
of tumbleweed floats on the road

coming into Needles Gateway to California

coming into Needles on the sly and under cover of darkness drunk still on the vacancy of that vivid glare some hours earlier tracked through

coming into Needles by way of the main street 10:30 p.m. a digital bank clock remarks for the record 112 Fahrenheit it reports soberly

coming into Needles
only to pass through
and quickly
into the wide desert
of the night again

farther down
that desolate road
and gray and scraggly through
the halo of your high-beams
the trickster coyote


Throughout this piece, the poet repeats the phrase “coming into Needles” to create a sense of motion. The repetition in the opening prose segments introduces a lone driver who is consistently “coming into”; he has yet to arrive at his destination. Woodward also includes details that establish a recurring mood of exhaustion, isolation, and desolation. The driver approaches the town “at the end of a blistering day,” his face sun-burnt and stung by flung sand. The first two tanka expand upon that mood: “last stop/ for water one hundred miles’’ and “the ghost/of tumbleweed floats on the road” provide lyrical extensions for the miles traveled.

The phrase “coming into Needles” then repeats three more times, prefacing each of the next several prose segments. The effect is cumulative: there is no relief for this driver. Woodward also adds details that deepen the mood: When the driver finally arrives “on the sly,” it’s “under cover of darkness” and he’s greeted by silence. The only “conversation” is a bank clock soberly reporting the still-high temperature.

In line one of the third tanka, Woodward repeats “coming into Needles” for the last time. He then follows it with an unexpected “only to pass through”—before he knows it, the driver is again in “the wide desert of the night,” as if Needles were just a trick of the eye. The only thing the town delivered was a taunting reminder of just how hot and parched the desert landscape is, even that late at night. Tanka four concludes this piece by introducing the trickster coyote, taking the experience into the mystical realm. The journey continues, and one can’t help but wonder if the traveler is destined for an eternal “approaching.”

By repeating that single phrase, Woodward enables the reader to experience both the eternal “coming into” and the ultimate disappointment: one can feel the driver’s isolation. It’s also worth noting the poet’s use of sound, repeating a hard c throughout the work: coming, Cristo, coattail, convertible, California, cover, clock, scraggly, trickster, coyote. The repetition of this hard consonant throughout the piece also reinforces the harshness of reality.

Conclusion

The inherent structure of tanka, with its additional lines and syllable counts when compared with haiku, provides expanded lyrical and linking opportunities. These opportunities also carry over to tanka prose.

Michael McClintock and Jeffrey Woodward are highly skilled poets who are well versed in Japanese poetry, and both show that the artistry of repetition is not simply “cut, rearrange, and paste.” One cannot just repackage the prose as one or more tanka. In that Atlas Poetica interview, when describing the artistry demonstrated by McClintock, Woodward remarked how “Bread, postman, dog, and rain rebound and echo from prose to tanka, from tanka to prose.” 6 For me, that “rebound and echo” wonderfully describes how repetition adds to the lyricism introduced by the tanka, and what makes tanka prose special.



Credits

1. Jeffrey Woodward, “Editorial: Tanka Prose and Haibun Today,” Haibun Today, September 25, 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

2. Claire Everett, “Tanka Prose, Tanka Tradition: An Interview with Jeffrey Woodward,” Atlas Poetica 9, Summer 2011, p. 67.

3. Donald Keene, Seeds in the Heart: A History of Japanese Literature, Volume 1, Henry Holt and Company, 1993, pp. 98-99.

4. Michael McClintock, “Before Croissants and Coffee,” Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose 1, Summer 2008, p.129. Reprinted by permission of the author

5. Jeffrey Woodward, “Needles by Night,” Another Garden: Tanka & Tanka Prose, 2010, pp. 68-69. Reprinted by permission of the author.

6. Claire Everett, “Tanka Prose, Tanka Tradition: An Interview with Jeffrey Woodward,” Atlas Poetica 9, Summer 2011, p. 68.

I am deeply grateful to both Michael McClintock and Jeffrey Woodward for allowing me to reprint and comment on their fine poems.

For Further Reading

Jeffrey Woodward, “The Segue in Tanka Prose,Ribbons 11:2, Spring/Summer 2015.


About the Author

Tish Davis lives in Northern Ohio. Her tanka and related forms have appeared in numerous online and print publications. When she isn’t busy with work and grandchildren she enjoys exploring the local parks with her husband and three dogs. 

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