This poem was written a few weeks ago before the conflict in the Caucasus started – so in case you’re wondering it’s not trying to be some kind of cryptic allegory. It’s just a poem about a cat !!! :o)

GEORGIA

My white cat
(Georgia),
The one with the stubborn streak,
Just walked across my face
Demanding food to eat.
She sits on my chest
And stares down at me.
“No food – no move,”
Her eyes told me.
She shifts a paw,
Then a claw
Menacingly.

So I fed her.

Tanka-you!

Thanks to everyone for the feedback on my Geisha poem. You may not have realised but the poem was constructed using three Tanka.

About Tanka

Tanka (or Waka) is an ancient Japanese form of poetry following a strict format of both syllable and line count, similar to the more well known form of haiku, though it might surprise you to hear that tanka were around long before the haiku.

The tanka form consists of 5 lines of unrhymed poetry, with a syllabic count as follows 5, 7, 5, 7, 7. This is a famous example of Tanka poetry by Empress Iwa no Hime. Note the syllable count differs due to translation from Japanese:

My Lord has departed
And the days have passed.
Shall I search the mountains,
Going forth to meet him,
Or wait and wait for him?

or this one from Okura

What are they to me,
Silver, or gold, or jewels?
How could they ever
Equal the greater treasure
that is a child?

The tanka, along with other Japanese forms of poetry, are a great way of exercising your creative juices, they're good for poets and non-poets, and they're pretty fun to write too. Why not have a go at writing one today? Here's mine:

Sunday morning

Echoes of bacon,
coffee still warm in the pot.
Sleepy: beds unmade.
Grass overgrown, pray for rain
and sweet silence: peaceful day.

From the Reading Night.....

Closing Doors by Heather Richardson

The umbrella fluttered droplets onto a growing puddle by the doormat. Shutting the door with a tinkle, Suzanne caught the waitress’s attention and was waved towards the only vacant table in the furthest corner of the coffee shop. She paused, just for a second, to trace a route through the crowd, before side-stepping between the occupied chairs profusely excusing each jostle.

Sitting down next to the wall she was pleased to have three empty seats around her – space to breathe and take in her surroundings. The café was stifling, steam lifted from the patrons and condensed on greasy windows. She eavesdropped on the intense chit-chat while removing layers of winter clothing. She loved this place, with its tinkling spoons on cheap porcelain, the smell of Turkish coffee percolating the heavy tobacco atmosphere, and even the loud hum of the ancient refrigerator with its beckoning pastries.

She didn’t need to order here. The waitress, teetering on inappropriately high sling-backs, was already picking her way across the sugar strewn floor with a black coffee held aloft. With bored ease she slid the saucer across the table and slapped down the bill in one fluid movement, before turning on her heels to click and stick her way back to the counter.

Spinning the cup handle into position Suzy lifted the bowl in both hands. She could feel the headache of the day slip away as easily as the dark liquid slipped down her throat. A chair slurred backwards into hers. Coffee sloshed over and into her lap as she was shoved forwards and wrenched from her reverie. “Pardon moi Mademoiselle,” an old gent wheezed as he rose hesitantly to leave. He brushed past too close, smelling faintly of an antique shop - all musty books and beeswax. Her annoyance faded as she watched him shamble to the door and out into the street. She turned her attention back to the brew when she noticed an envelope on the table.