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homework- review- by tom clausen

01 Sunday Dec 2019

Posted by in americana, Chapbooks, haiku, Haiku Way of Life, Lynx,, tanka, Published Poems, senryu, tanka

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Homework by Tom Clausen. Saddle-stitched, full color cover, 4″ x 6″, 36 pages. $10., ppd. ISBN: 1-903543-00-2. Order from Snapshots Press, 132 Crosby, Liverpool, L23 8XS, England.

To quote the jacket notes: “Focusing squarely on domestic life, this collection of haiku, senryu, and tanka is often funny, often sad and always paradoxically both familiar and eye-opening.” It cannot be said better nor more succinctly what this newest book by Tom Clausen contains. I can only add my continuing praise for Tom’s work. It is always a revelation and delight how he seizes on the tiniest experience, and through his examination of it and the cool observation his own feelings, carries it over into a major event. This leaves the reader wondering, “Now, why did I not notice that?” and “Why did I not think of that as material for a poem?”. It seems that tanka is especially designed for the methods of Tom Clausen. Even when aware of the smallest thing, he is also aware of how that thing or event is affecting him. This occurs even in his haiku.

While some purists might fault his haiku for not being closely enough aligned with the nature-nature viewpoint, his sensibilities are absolutely accurate for tanka. This collection gains, I think, by the inclusion of his haiku (which often portray the lighter moments of family living). They seem to play off and actually highlight the attributes of his tanka. Altogether, the editing and arrangement of the poems seems especially fine and relevant. For anyone who has grown up in a family or is living in a family now, this book will take away those terrible moments of aloneness when one felt that no one else in the world ever had such moments of doubt, despair and pure undiluted joy. Tom has been there, and he has the courage to face them directly and honestly, and to continue to hang with the feelings until he has created pure poetry out of them.

no longer me
it proves a mystery who it is
I’ve become
walking around this house
with my family there inside

I sort of knew
my coffee cup
was empty –
so much I look in it
just to see

The sensitivity of the editor, John Barlow, is shown in the choice of a drawing done by Tom’s young daughter, Emma Clausen, as cover along with the insider joke of the title of the book – Homework. Delight piles on delight with this one. Review written by Jane Reichhold

Homework- poems of a young family- parenting moments

22 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by in Chapbooks

≈ 4 Comments

Homework by Tom Clausen

Snapshot Press (2000) Liverpool, UK

this quiet morning
even the bar of soap
falls apart

constantly dust and
peeling paint and
molds and cracks-
this house we call home
holding us

cleaning the poop out
his little Superman
underpants

how long he cries
for the little shell lost
on the way home

stumbling
with her proud little bean plant
the break in her face
as she sees me
looking

home from work…
the little one brings me
an empty wine bottle

after speaking importantly
she quickly resumes
sucking her thumb

playing a child’s game
I learn all
his rules

losing control of my son
– and myself

all through
his temper tantrum
her calm

as I sit in thought
she moves briskly
about the room,
stirring the chill
in the air

to the cat:
“that is complete and
utter nonsense”

without consent
my old sneakers
in the trash

we bicker
all through the house
… cleaning

my wife admits
she is not perfect,
but is glad I am

now that I’m over
my bad mood,
she’s in one

to the goldfish
she speaks
more softly

revealed so long
this grain of wood
on our floor-
the distance yet
we have to go

just home from work
back to back
phone solicitations

after her letter
no heart to open
a bill

our son spills his milk,
not an iota
of reaction from him

using her potty
as a step stool
she poops

telling her it’s time
for a diaper change:
“ I did not”

how could I have known
our children, precious
as they are,
would drive us
to such brinks?

in the next room
our children peacefully asleep
– we do nothing

that point
in the evening
where both cats are in place
quietly licking themselves
while I read

she’s waited up…
to have some last words
with me

while brushing my teeth
she tells me again:
“let’s move”

it’s not for any
simple reason
I’ve fallen out
of love
with my life

up in the dark
the toilet
overflows

the plumber
kneeling in our tub
– talking to himself

done-
the repairman tells me
any fool can do it

each day being human
brings its choices, chores
and emotions-
hands in the sink water and
the children calling out for more

ten years now
her non-stacking
dessert dishes

I watch the tv
movie love scene my wife
already in bed

the snow
moves me
window to window

in the empty room
I look around to remember why
I’m here

before sleep
laughing to myself
at myself

 

New Year’s Eve-
the lentil soup
again

in the middle
of my life
an ulcer

New Year’s …
recycling last year’s
resolutions

second day
of the New Year:
taxes arrive

quite by surprise
my daughter asks me
if I’d like to be a woman
the gravity in the moment
I took to answer

sick in bed-
my son pelts the window
with snowballs

in the shower
an economy-size bar of soap
lands on my toe

at the mailbox
the emptiness
of another day

it occurs to me
to retreat
from this world-
as if another world
might exist

no longer me
it proves a mystery who it is
I’ve become
walking around this house
with my family there inside

the confines
of my basement study
call me
as if my life were there
to be resolved

evening star…
she sleeps with the lion’s tail
in her little hand

I sort of knew
my coffee cup
was empty-
so much I look in it
just to see

outside the glass door
our old cat has forgotten
it wanted ‘in’

yard work:
some of the old tire water
on my shoes

the butterfly’s path…
my son swings again
and misses

the children run
so carelessly through
the garden-
my dismay
tempered with memory

in the midst
of the children’s raucous play
I notice my son a moment
staring as if aware
of something fleeting past

I watch my children
joyfully little and innocent
of everything ahead-
too much I know
too much to tell

 

bowed to the ground
the goldenrods
too tall of themselves-
I couldn’t tell her why
the sky is blue

summer dusk-
the neighbors vacuum
the silence

ImageImage

Growing Late-tanka

15 Sunday Dec 2013

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available through Snapshot Press:
ISBN  1-903543-13-4
US  $14.00    Canada  $17.00    UK f. 7.99
Growing Late- by Tom Clausen (2006)  edited by John Barlow
 taken from the back cover:
‘Tom Clausen has taken the tanka form and given it his own voice. His poems are flags set at the boundaries of his person that guide the reader deeper into him or herself. Though his work is very personal, the honesty and validity of it applies his observations to all of us. He has courageously looked into his heart and found us all’    – Jane Reichhold, Editor, Lynx
‘Tom Clausen has journeyed deep into the human mind and heart, the vagaries of which he brilliantly links to the cycles of the natural world. These are autumnal poems, filled with wistfulness and regret for time past. At the same time, however, Clausen finds comfort in the tiny wonders of daily life; a daddy-longlegs, bare feet, the scent of wood smoke, and his own chair. With deep modesty and generosity of spirit, he is “quietly recording” and “living all these/ middle-aged days.” ‘
Pamela Miller Ness, Editor, Red Lights

Tanka

as useless
as this hard rain
on frozen ground—
these memories of all the people
I once was

so many chances
in a day
to say something to you
but here it is
growing late

my beer gone flat
but out of duty
I finish it—
living all these
middle-aged days

Reviews

‘A highly recommended addition to your tanka collection. Poem after poem demonstrates the mastery of a highly skilled poet willing to engage the unsentimental realities of his existence.’
—Lynx

A Work of Love-tanka

15 Sunday Dec 2013

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A Work of Love  (1997)  Tanka
from Tiny Poems Press ( out of print)

*
*

midnight again
the furnace cycles off
and no wind-
for a while the quiet
becomes a longing

*
*

between chores
I study my hands
as if they might hold
something
I should know
*
*
tiny bluets
all around me
and over there
a couple,
very much in love
*
*
I can’t help my desire
glancing over
to her terminal
after little bits of decent
time have passed
*
*
by spontaneous consent
our subtle flirting
has played itself out–
our friendship will be
all the better for this
*
*
she’s not here
to see it
but after breaking the stick
I perfectly fit the broken ends
back together again
*
*
as if one
were not enough
I daydream pleasantly
of several women
I know
*
*
her look guarded
as she tells me
she may be late–
what great news this is,
she still will come
*
*
so intent with feeling
that her warm greeting
to someone just beyond me
gave me a moment so sure
she was greeting me
*
*
seeing her by chance
I once had a dream about her
years ago–
over time it has taken on
a substance of its own
*
*
what a surprise
she wants to take a photo
of us together–
I keep thinking
about it
*
*
Queen Anne’s Lace and
Black Eyed Susans
by the thousands along the road
and to think
you married me
*
*
as we gaze across the fence
my wife asks what I think
about a cow’s life,
honestly it looks quite okay
except for the flies
*
*
far from home
in the car
my wife mentions in passing
the name of someone
we don’t see anymore
*
*
in the company of friends
our marriage takes on
an air of comfort
as we all attend to things
other than ourselves
*
*
after supporting
their divorce plans
I write them a Valentine;
suggest they reconsider
it all again
*
*
beyond this life
that one old friend
I bump into over and over
promising that we’ll get together
again, someday
*
*
deep in the night
letting the phone ring
and ring…
then for a long time
wondering who?
*
*
when I think back
six years ago
when my mother had the stroke
I can’t remember who
I was back then
*
*
under a tree
we talk of mother’s passage
from this life–
inchworms suspended
all around us
*
*
I had it all
figured out,
this little wisdom of mine,
then in the night
the rain so hard
*
*
who knows what she thinks
or desires
yet the rain this Saturday
steady, as my wife reads
I watch her carefully
*
*
these days housebound
if only we could agree
to keep our words
silently
to ourselves
*
*
wanting my old life
when I wanted
my present life
stirring the soup she made
as a cold rain falls outside
*
*
some days seem
altogether too much
but then
so welcome it becomes
the night
*
*
after a rough day
she props her head in hand
a few inches from my face
and asks intently:
“do you really like me?”
*
*
the house quiet
and cold
this early morning alone
saddened to know how much
I desired just this
*
*
the envelope to me
sealed carefully with tape
on every seam
when opened, reveals
absolutely nothing
*
*
tolerably melancholy
to sit here while the kids play
and be lost in myself–
on a path nearby
she walks in the sun
*
*
for over a decade
we’ve talked–
still you want our talk
as much as I want
the silences between
*
*
nothing special
about deja-vu,
feeling down–
once long ago I felt
young and free
*
*
even though
we’re always together
my wife asks if
I’ve tried
the new pizza place
*
*
I look over
the three sleeping bodies
beside me–
to think a whole decade
I felt all alone
*
*
instinctively
for old times’ sake
I reach out, half awake,
to give your breast
a quick little squeeze
*
*
this rainy fall Sunday
I write poems and watch
steam rise from my tea–
as she passes she rips off
a little piece of sandpaper for me
*
*
my youth spent
gathering strength and solace
of friends near and far–
these short years later
losing them one by one
*
*
the cold walk,
silence
between us,
the creek running
under ice
*
*
every few bounces
the robin pauses on the lawn
to look and listen
as if that were all
there was to do
*
*
I have much to do
it is obvious–
what I will do is exactly
what she wants,
her little two year old heart
*
*
the tentative start-up
of talk…
                to a new friend?
begins the old doubt
of just who I am, again
*
*

Homework

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by in Chapbooks

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Homework  ( 2000)  Snapshot Press, Poetry/  Haiku & Tanka
published by Snapshot Press:
oop-   ISBN 1 903543002
Review of ‘Homework’  by Jane and Werner Reichhold:

Homework by Tom Clausen. Saddle-stitched, full color cover, 4″ x 6″, 36 pages. $10., ppd. ISBN: 1-903543-00-2. oop- by Snapshots Press, 132 Crosby, Liverpool, L23 8XS, England.

To quote the jacket notes: “Focusing squarely on domestic life, this collection of haiku, senryu, and tanka is often funny, often sad and always paradoxically both familiar and eye-opening.” It cannot be said better nor more succinctly what this newest book by Tom Clausen contains. I can only add my continuing praise for Tom’s work. It is always a revelation and delight how he seizes on the tiniest experience, and through his examination of it and the cool observation his own feelings, carries it over into a major event. This leaves the reader wondering, “Now, why did I not notice that?” and “Why did I not think of that as material for a poem?”. It seems that tanka is especially designed for the methods of Tom Clausen. Even when aware of the smallest thing, he is also aware of how that thing or event is affecting him. This occurs even in his haiku.

While some purists might fault his haiku for not being closely enough aligned with the nature-nature viewpoint, his sensibilities are absolutely accurate for tanka. This collection gains, I think, by the inclusion of his haiku (which often portray the lighter moments of family living). They seem to play off and actually highlight the attributes of his tanka. Altogether, the editing and arrangement of the poems seems especially fine and relevant. For anyone who has grown up in a family or is living in a family now, this book will take away those terrible moments of aloneness when one felt that no one else in the world ever had such moments of doubt, despair and pure undiluted joy. Tom has been there, and he has the courage to face them directly and honestly, and to continue to hang with the feelings until he has created pure poetry out of them.

no longer me
it proves a mystery who it is
I’ve become
walking around this house
with my family there inside

I sort of knew
my coffee cup
was empty –
so much I look in it
just to see

The sensitivity of the editor, John Barlow, is shown in the choice of a drawing done by Tom’s young daughter, Emma Clausen, as cover along with the insider joke of the title of the book – Homework. Delight piles on delight with this one.

Standing Here

15 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by in Chapbooks

≈ 2 Comments

Standing Here  ( 1998)  self published

daybreak-

the rubber duck alone

in the empty tub

 

 

 

 

 

 

standing here

at this window, remembering mother

standing here

 

 

 

 

 

 

my child asks

what keeps the moon up?

you do, I reply

 

 

 

 

 

 

the door open

to the meditation room

no one there

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

waiting…

behind opaque glass

snow falls

 

 

 

 

 

 

bitter cold morning-

compressed with the trash

some of sunrise

 

 

 

 

 

 

quiet evening-

a spider walks its shadow

across the wall

 

 

 

 

 

 

goldenrod gall

quivers-

blowing snow

 

 

 

 

 

 

winter moor-

my footsteps come back

to me

 

 

 

 

 

 

dark morning snow

the bus packed

with faces

 

 

 

 

 

 

light snow…

the students study

in silence

 

 

 

 

 

 

late afternoon-

pigeons bank back to

the building

 

 

 

 

 

 

watering their plants

seeing their house

without them

 

 

 

 

 

 

last ray of sun

in the feeder

a sparrow

 

 

 

 

 

 

closed-

deep inside

a light

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a stranger smiles-

the elevator closes

and goes up

 

 

 

 

 

 

my son asks

how far it goes

… space

 

 

 

 

 

 

lunch alone

without a book

I read my mind

 

 

 

 

 

 

drought-

ants disappearing

into cracked earth

 

 

 

 

 

 

still summer night-

shining a flashlight

around the garden

 

 

 

 

 

 

for my son:

lifting a stone

to see

 

 

 

 

 

 

formal garden-

a cabbage butterfly’s

whimsy

 

 

 

 

 

 

urinating…

the delicate breeze

among the ferns

 

 

 

 

 

 

cold front

the forgotten dulcimer

pings

 

 

 

 

 

 

heavy rain-

lilac blooms smush

against the window

 

 

 

 

 

 

lying in the leaves

the sun shares the shape

of her corduroys

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sentinel pine-

roots running every which way

showered in moonlight

 

 

 

 

 

 

deep overcast-

chickory blue

out of concrete rubble

 

 

 

 

 

 

late day sun-

deep on the forest floor

a seedling

 

 

 

 

 

 

beach walking…

collecting pebbles

and letting them go

 

 

 

 

 

 

floating in its own

little place in the rocks

a diet Coke can

 

 

 

 

 

 

quietly, he goes about

reading the names

grave by grave

 

 

 

 

 

 

early autumn blue-

last turn out of town

facing the hills

 

 

 

 

 

 

as we talk…

wind blowing leaves

out of the trees

 

 

 

 

 

 

snow flurrying…

the deer, one by one, look back

before they vanish

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the dark

through the window light

my wife and child

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unraked Leaves

15 Sunday Dec 2013

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Unraked Leaves (1995) self published

 

 

 

daybreak-

from the bread truck’s roof

frost swirls

 

 

 

autumn field-

the vitamin slowly dissolves

in my mouth

 

 

 

daydreaming…

the jet contrail slowly

spreads

 

 

 

going the same way…

exchanging looks with the driver

of the hearse

 

 

 

on the bench

a young couple carries on

as if I’m not there

 

 

 

each time

the door opens

a few more leaves

 

 

 

late night-

the wind rustles

some leaves

 

 

 

as the music goes

into overdrive

I check the speedometer

 

 

 

holding

my pee

for home

 

 

 

behind the Wendy’s sign

an entire mountain

in color

 

 

 

crow lingers-

the roadkill

beyond recognition

 

 

 

my cat comes up close

then shies away

alcohol on my breath

 

 

 

twilight moon

in the still lake a fish

flips itself

 

 

 

praying mantis near death

the little mouth parts

still move

 

 

 

disturbing movie

the eyes of those waiting

to get in

 

 

 

power failure…

moonlit clouds drift

by the window

 

 

 

all around

the little bandstand

unraked leaves

 

 

 

the way

light eases

into dawn

 

 

 

below the window

a sparrow on its side

one feather lifting

 

 

 

he leaves…

his wine glass on the counter

autumn rain

 

 

 

behind me

an acorn drops

on the road

 

 

 

under the manhole

the night gives

a gurgle

 

 

 

he double checks

the coin return-

emptiness lingers

 

 

 

abandoned farmhouse

autumn twilight darkest

in the empty windows

 

 

 

again this year

just her signature below

the holiday message

 

 

 

dawn…

at the empty crossroads

the signal blinks

 

 

 

all the voices

songs, waiting

in the broken radio

 

 

 

older and older

the strangers saying hello

to me

 

 

 

droning plane fades out…

how little difference it makes

what age I am

 

 

 

the way

the light bulb rests

in the rest of the trash

 

 

 

on the road…

even the daylight comes

and goes

 

 

 

on the trail again…

walking deeper

into myself

 

 

 

Autumn Wind in the Cracks

15 Sunday Dec 2013

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empty parking lot

some wind collects and swirls

leaves into a shape

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

alone in the waiting room

checking the plant

for reality

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

in early morning rain

I return

a stranger’s solemn nod

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

everyday she waits

at the bus stop;

just to wait

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

rusted tracks

beside the freeway A man

with a burlap sack

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

under the pine tree

that he chose rain

at his grave

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

my father’s winter

coats still hang

in the closet

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

with friends

I open the fortune cookie

without a fortune

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

taking off my clothes

my heart

closer…

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

in another country

from a flatcar

the Milky Way

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

free spirits…

a year later

they return

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

sidewalk sale-

wind twists a lifetime

guarantee tag

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

x-ray room

they remove

her crucifix

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

myself

monopolizes

me

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

morning zazen

marriage counseling

ourselves

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

train receding

its wake in the grasses

still waving…

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

end to end

three Ramblers take part

in the overgrown field

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

farm auction-

fields filled with asters

and goldenrod

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

cold autumn wind

in all the cracks

eyes of barn cats

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

the tree that rubbed

the house noisily

burns in the fireplace

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

autumn moonlight

folded in

the clothes on the floor

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

meeting her boyfriend

our handshake

out of synch

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

sneaking M & M’s…

the crunching

in my ears

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

wanting my old life

when I wanted

my present life

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

cream in my coffee…

visiting from the next booth

a curious cockroach

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

asleep

in my lap the new kitten

I didn’t want

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

the hypnotist

describes her technique

sound of the stream

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

downpour-

a duck waddles away

from the pond

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

after the party

undressing

myself

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

early morning fog-

in the cereal bowl

the spoon clinks

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

in the prayer bowl

the silence

of dust

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

daybreak frost-

the sound of leaves falling

through leaves

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

calling

for the lost cat…

wind chimes

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

mountaintop:

giving back

each breath

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

the way

rain takes

the mountain

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

after zazen

the ride home

without the radio

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

one tree

one bird, one song

the dusk

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

sunrise frost-

under the maple one night’s scatter

of leaves

 

 

 

**