I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')
This blog is not, 'Here are my very best poems'. It's for work in progress, subject to revision.
Posts may be updated without notice at any time. Completed work appears in my books.
Announcement (19 May 2013)
I won’t be writing so many new poems for a while — though there will be some. I want to spend more time on revision, and more time working on memoir (in prose!). I'll continue to participate in my online poetic communities, sharing poems already written.
The rain pours in, filling up gutters
and drains, drenching the garden, slipping down the sides of the banks,
overflowing the dam, its glassy surface covered with lilies and moonlit
clouds. Heavier, heavier, sheets
of steady drumming, nothing left of space between the drops, only a wall of
water pouring out of the sky. Only
a world of water, a moving blanket that covers it all, out there. If we would walk in it, out there, it
would not be a wall, finite, it would be a river in the air to have to keep
The whiteness of the sound. Like torrents tumbling. A waterfall of air, airy water, watery
air. Triumphant, transcendent,
filling up the night. Filling up
the black beyond my window.
Filling up the silence out there with its one, wild, incessant
noise. Gurgling and dribbling,
hissing and whispering, telling stories to itself about the things we do here
and what we are. The rain is only
rain, knows only rain, itself, does not fathom me, does not understand who we
are, what we do, does not like much the things it sees us do. Rain is rain and whispers harsh
disapproving remarks, mutters to itself, condemns.
Rain is life for trees and birds,
insects and earth, even for me. It
fills the tank, it fills the river.
It floods. Not here — but
it does flood. Not here. I tell my friend, and my children who
live far — no, it isn't here, the flood.
We're safe, it's otherwhere.
It's over in the west, and south of here. We're safe. The
rain mutters, mocks, coming down continuously. The rain is silver, looks like mud, not clear. It gets to the ground and spreads out
in mud. It gets to the ground and
swells the rivers, spreads all over the land. No, not here.
We're safe. Please, let us
be safe, we don't want a flood. We
want the drink of the earth, the soaking in, the good rain the birds love.
Afterwards they were all out singing,
the rain that rang on Wellington Street when I was a child once. Afterwards the garden hung with drops,
and all the birds out in the light, singing. Drips from pink roses, drips from bushes and leaves, tangles
of thorns, water and birdsong falling all over pink roses, the sun just coming
out. It was not Wellington, it was
Brisbane Street. No matter ... all
the gone gardens in the summers of my lost youth. All the wintry rainy seasons. The church bell chiming through rain. I must go home again. I'll never go home again. It washes me away, the rain. I can't go home again. The rain came tumbling down. Published in Secret Leopard. Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005. (See sidebar.) (A friend asked if she could read some of my prose poems online. So I thought I'd better post some. See also previous post.) Submitted for dverse Open Link Night #85
For my mother Tasmania was
mine, mmm, I loved it. The many
colours, many landscapes, the movement of the seasons. The deep blue mountains, the bright
meandering streams. Silver and
golden streams, water and sunlight.
Sunlight streaming on my wide back lawn, which spread like a
meadow. Shimmering grass and
shimmering sky. Fresh springtime
mornings, their frosts diminishing, becoming dew. Summer full of bees, their peaceful hum. Me on my own, mooning through summer
days, meandering round my meadow, humming too.
hiding the valleys, climbing the hills, almost veiling the mountains, draping
my familiar town in mystery,
magic. Then melting gradually, by
midday gone, the gleaming town new-minted.
black mud; myself muffled in overcoat, cap and mittens. Gumboots to mid-calf. Squelch, squelch, I am the master of
all this mud! Hurrying home to the
warm, the welcoming mother. Tomato soup beside the fire. My clothes hugging me warm: soft socks
and cosy jumper. Hugging myself
with my happy arms.
The taste of
tomato soup and mushy brown bread.
The taste of comfort, home.
The flavour of a warm room, safe from the frosts and marauding storms. Summer
tastes were fruit - gooseberries, raspberries, nectarines, damson plums... The purplest of plums, dark purple,
thick with juice. Messy all over
my cheeks, staining my hair, covering my
hands to the wrists. My
rich purple lips, my inky tongue.
Mum amazed, aghast at so much mess. Oh miraculous messy damson plums! Welcome back to my memory, dreamtime summer fruit.
stretched to encompass all the autumn.
Mellow harvest moons, huge and golden, mimicked the sun. The sky smiled, the cosmos smiled on
'Come home!' the
island calls me now. 'You are my
child. Come home, come back, you
Published in Secret Leopard. Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005. (See sidebar.) (A friend asked if she could read some of my prose poems online. So I thought I'd better post some. See also next post.) And linking — just a little late! — to Poets United's Mothers' Day 2013 edition of Poets Pantry
My beautiful man passed away today about 3.40 in the afternoon. The nursing home phoned me just after breakfast so I went straight there and our dear friend Maureen joined me there, and we sat with him all day. The nursing home fed us, and we reminisced about him and his life, and talked to him too, and held his hands, knowing he could feel and hear us although he was unable to respond. He was very peaceful and comfortable all day, and went quickly and easily. He did wonderful things in his life, and was a treasured friend and mentor to many. I have been very blessed to have 20 years with this incredibly loving man.