30 Days of Delight

To my companions at Project 366

Every morning

I bring my coffee

and come to the feast,

where I linger.

I meet beauty – my reason

for this whole lifelong

engagement with poetry,

and passion for visual art.

I find quirkiness, laughter,

deep thought

and deeper feelings –

great nourishment.

Oh, I like

poems to get my teeth into,

to devour in gulps, or to savour;

tasty, piquant images,

and others that slake thirst.

So I’m sorry to leave you, and

like Penelope (who just said goodbye)

after 30 days of making poems,

I notice I’m tired. It’s surprising.

‘Writing begets writing’

I said at the outset.

And so it has been. A pouring.

More than one a day.

A delight. A fervour.

(Not taking anything out

of my life – oh, except housework

and exercise. Adding this in.)

I realise now, it must have taken

invisible reserves of energy.

Would persistence have increased

fatigue or stamina? I won’t know.

‘It is never any use

dwelling on goodbyes,’

a wise person, whose name

I’m too lazy to look up now, said.

‘It is not the being together

it prolongs. It is the parting.’ Yes.

The time has come to say goodbye.

And so, my sweets, let us part.

I’ll never grow too old to dream;

still your art will live in my heart.

(Now that I’ve got you all weepy –

don’t panic, I’ll be lurking and reading.)

My final poem as a guest blogger this past month at Project 366

The Advantages of Poetry

Be faithful to your calling.

It will not desert you.

(You will doubt this at times,

when it seems to take leave of absence,

but trust. It WILL come back.) 

Poetry won't keep you warm

on cold nights,

but will help you celebrate

those who do

(every coupling 

a secret threesome)

and console you

after they depart.

It might not make you rich

but you'll think

your poverty's worth it.

You'll always

have someone to talk to.

Poetry is not a partner

who'll dump you after just one dance.

Poetry wants to go home with you.

And if you can't dance,

poetry will teach you.

Poetry will happily 

get wasted with you –

and in the morning

you'll both look worse for wear.

Later, though,

poetry will help you straighten out.

If the power goes off,

you only need a candle

and some kind of notebook

with keyboard or pen.

You can do without TV

or someone else's novel.

It won't feed you

but it can make you forget about meals, 

and any other hunger or thirst 

except the ache for perfection

of word or line.

No matter what goes wrong,

no matter how helpless you feel,

there is always this to do.

And when everything's right

and beautiful

and buoyant,

poetry enables you

to hold the moment a whole lot longer,

then to return for more.

(With poetry, there is no such thing

as being too greedy.)

Poetry doesn't care

about fame and status. 

You do –

and it may or may not happen –

but to poetry it's simply irrelevant.

You want someone to read your poetry,

someone to hear your words.

You're allowed to want that; it's natural.

And there will be those who do.

Cherish them, even if they are not many.

But know, as well,

that if you stand outside and speak your poetry,

be it in a shout or a whisper,

the trees will hear, and the air.

When you read your words over to yourself, silently,

angels and spirits will stand at your shoulder

reading too, noticing the pictures and the music.

And when the words are nowhere but in your mind,

God perceives them, who put them there.


Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #310

A Gift of Roses

Unusual pale apricot –

roses from my friend,

in a black pot

where they stayed,

moving with me to all

the rented houses.

Every year

they flowered twice:

in Spring and Autumn.

Until they stopped. 

No blooms, not a bud,

now my friend is dead. 

For Quadrille #12: rose at dVerse

Pluto

Governs Scorpio –

which used to share Mars

with fiery Aries, until

this dark mystery was found.

So small, it's hard to define

as a regular planet. (They

are big and gassy.) 

But it's intense!

It has frozen nitrogen lakes,

a huge, hazy atmosphere

with layers embedded,

a sky that's blue like ours

and, probably, 

vast seas of water 

hidden underground –

very Scorpio, that.

Astronomers argue now.

Can't it still be a planet

as it's so exciting, or

is it King of the Dwarves?

It's far colder

than we can imagine.

And I hate the cold.

Still I want it. We Scorpions

are not direct like Aries,

nor as warlike as Mars.

We are of an underworld

that isn't hot and hellish.

Rather, we are deep 
and dangerous,

like hidden oceans 
or solid nitrogen.


Linked to the current Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Watching a Religious Parade on TV

Robed in white, the Cardinal

is walking in slow processional,

holding a decorative shepherd's crook –

symbol of caring for his flock.

It is a younger priest I see,

staring through years of memory:

smooth-faced, all those decades back,

and suited in serviceable black.

The tilt of his head, his sober expression,

radiated concern, compassion.

The Church would set the matter right.

Later I read his useless report.

That was for an investigation

into conditions at a city prison.

We put in front of him every detail 

that made the place a renowned hell-hole.

An ex-teacher there, I was at that time

part of a group for prison reform.

His purpose, it afterwards seemed to me,

was to absolve the Church of responsibility.

When he says that it was long ago;

he can't recall, he doesn't know

about pedophile priests and child abuse,

or the cover-up of which he's accused –

I remember that young career priest,

schooling his face to appear earnest

as mothers and sisters of prisoners

confided horrors, fighting back tears.

He nodded, spoke softly, listened well,

took notes, asked questions, got it all.

There was also my long, written submission.
Months of waiting. Then his call to inaction.

His back is hunched, his face is red;

his gaze downcast, not heavenward.

There are floppy jowls and wrinkles now.

Facts might be smoothed away; not his brow.

It's very un-Christian of me, I know –

but then I am not a Christian, so –

I confess that seeing him bowed with age,

morose and shuffling, gladdens my rage.


(Been trying a long time to write this.)

My Dad

Grew roses,

strawberries,

ferns and bamboo.

Made wooden dolls

from round-topped clothes-pegs,

drawing faces on.

Sketched for me

water-colour flowers; I remember

pink heath’s delicate bells.

When I had nightmares

sat with me into dawn,

telling stories.

At parties, played

comb-and-tissue

mouth organ;

declaimed with gestures

‘Abdul the Bulbul Emir’

or some Rabbie Burns.

Made an acrostic poem

every family birthday,

the person’s name down the side.

Laughed

sang

danced.

Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #309

Cross-posted to my verse portraits blog, Impressions You Left

Once, on a 16-foot Trailer-Sailor

It was Broome to Darwin –

but we skipped 

part of the Sound,

and cut across

the top of the Gulf.

Not enough time

to hug and explore

those long, intricate shores.

It was 40 degrees plus 

(Celsius); only warm salt water 

to tip on ourselves 

from a bucket dipped over the side.

Fresh was rationed for drinking –

couldn't always find

pool or stream  

up the inlets.

It was clear nights 

lounging on deck;

uncountable stars

crowding the vast black dome overhead;

and one tiny, quick white satellite.

It was crocodiles sunning.

Waterfalls. Four-storey tides.

Beach sand inland, impossibly high.

Note: 40ºC is 104ºF.  (It was the tropics! But the nights cooled off somewhat).

Responding to a prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads', to write on sailing in 100 words max (excluding title).

Don't Talk To Me About Summer

Bloody freezing right now

and Sanaa over at Prompt Nights

is asking for a poem of summer –

hot, sensuous summer

of fiery bosom and bared lips

(or was that the other way around?).

Hard now, already, to imagine

raging heat, naked flesh. Who wants

recollections that only make you shiver

all the more in wretched comparison?

We hate you, Northern Hemisphere poets.

You think your half is the whole world, don't you?

You're so up there. But just you wait.

When you are shovelling snow

and battling blizzards, guess where we'll be?

Yes, at the beach. We'll be sprawling

on smooth sand in the sun, we'll be playing
in our rapturous oceans ..... Meanwhile I'm sneezing.

Written for Sanaa Rizvi's Prompt Nights: Summer

Recurring Dream

In this dream

you are here again.

We’re talking.

Just that.

No special revelations.

Just you and me.

Just talking.

Friendly. Ordinary.

About nothing much.

The small

deeply important

matters of day-to-day.

It isn't the words.

It’s your head close to mine

on the other pillow.

It’s the warmth between us

unremarked,

not needing remark.

When I wake 

and know,

it’s not so bad any more.

There are always tears

of course

but also gladness.

I understand it’s a dream

of wish-fulfilment. And

I know the dream is true.


Sharing at Prompt Nights: Dreams

Change

The afternoon wind

is loud and busy

rushing everywhere

whooshing and clattering.

Birds nervously shriek

and my cat runs in to tell me

it’s different today, out there.

A playful wind, yes,

but there’s an edge – 

a touch of bombast.

All night our cosy house

feels suddenly less secure.
Next morning I find fallen branches

blown right across my lawn.

Worlds Within Worlds

I walk the invisible paths

of cyberspace

to a centre of art and poetry.

There I find labyrinths

in poem after poem

answering and extending each other.

Today in the physical space

of the Goddess Circle

we sing and dance and meditate

and walk in dance a labyrinth.

We carry invisible candles, and 

are linked like a thread, hand to hand.

We take our light into darkness,

then retrace our steps,

winding our way back out.

A simple ritual and profound.

The deep core.

The ever-expanding circumference.

At the Project 365+1 blog where I've been a guest this month, someone posted a poem on the labyrinth theme and it inspired others. Then the real-life event described above seemed a wonderful piece of synchronicity, and an occasion for me to write a labyrinth poem too.

Forewarning

In the dream

I was trying and trying

to call out to you,

I was desperate.

Some force, 

some inexorable fate,

was taking you

further and further away.

In my head I was screaming

your name, but I couldn't

get any sound out, and you

had your back to me,

retreating. You didn't see

my choking struggles,

the despair on my face,

my arm stretching.

Finally I forced out

a stifled gasp, which woke me,

and there you were

lying beside me. 

How many years was that

into our marriage?

Not very long. The kids

were still in primary school.

Even then, I knew

what the dream meant.

When I was in psychotherapy,

the Doc (as we called him

amongst ourselves)

used to ask, when one of the group 

told a frightening dream –

'Who wrote the script?'

But I did get your name out

almost inaudibly. Enough

to wake me, though you stayed asleep.

And of course there was nothing

wrong with my life,

how could there be?

Of course there was nothing wrong

with our marriage.

Some years later,

on another morning,

I woke from a dream 

which I didn't and don't remember – 

only, I brought to consciousness 

the knowledge that I was tied

to an incompatible man

and could not fully be me.

Then a calm voice, not mine,

said inside my head,

'But you won't always be here'.

Immediate peace. 

'Oh, of course not,' I thought.

Later I rationalised: it meant

not here in this moment. We could grow

more together, there was hope.

It took 27 years all told

between our joining and parting.

I still say it was you

who chose to end it.

You insisted it was me.

And perhaps it was –

in a knowing dream, when we 

were still young and blithe.


Linking this to the Tuesday Platform, 3 Jan 2017, at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Sightings of Crows

Three crows at the side of the road
and a fourth swooping across.
What does this denote?

Put on your witch hat, woman!

Gather your cloak
deftly around your shoulders.
Magic is afoot.

Rapunzel Retold

Walled in

inside the high tower

I find the young woman

('just a girl, really,' 

she was sometimes told)

who dangled her long golden hair

softly over the faces of her babies,

her babies who

with smiles and tiny grabbing fingers

travelled up those strands to gaze in her eyes,

hoisting their brand-new awareness

in through the open window

of mother love.

When then was now, 

she sat in a house on the ground

with not only windows but doors that opened.

And that was fine for many years

while the babies thrived and grew.

How could she know

one was growing wrong?

To her eyes, the traces were faint

mostly invisible.

The thing became apparent

gradually. Even in his youth

and early manhood

she didn't see.

An infection, of sorts, in the brain –

or a chunk of it missing?

She has her ideas by now,

but even now can only guess.

The youngest son in the tales

meets many challenges, no?

Makes amazing journeys.

His were into delusion.

His were into hatred.

Finally, after years of tears,

she performed a ritual of distant healing

for the troubled man who had become

fearful to her, and unknown.

Then she expunged him from her life,

as had many others.

It was not for cruelty that her Sorceress

blocked behind high walls of stone

a long-ago mother playing with her babies,

and that youngest, enchanting child

with his early gifts for drawing and poetry,

his precocious insights, and the smile 

that still, in memory, makes her heart turn over.

I felt there was more for me to explore in the Rapunzel archetype, and sure enough....

A Poem for Elizabeth

Where inner space widens to outer

she creates her secret places.

They hold strong. She can visit and revisit.

One is a garden, where parts of her

take the forms of animals,

to show themselves more clearly to her.

Then there’s the boulder,

a private place of peace, which she reaches

eventually, after travel and striving.

A large, wise, gentle tiger called Pain

becomes fellow-traveller and teacher –

through all landscapes a faithful guide.

A sassy red tulip reveals itself

as hardy, feisty, in-your-face …

and it’s her face. It has her name.

Elizabeth is the name of great Queens

and of one legendary beauty

who, in her long life, suffered much pain.

And now it is hers. She steps into it, 

claims it. Elizabeth doodles with artist’s pencils,

bringing into this world the shapes of dream.

Inspired by some stories of Elizabeth Crawford's.

Resilience

Is it a bird that, battered by storms,

rises again to soar on strong wings?

Is it a beast of burden – an ox, say –

that rests at the end of the day

to recover its strength and resume?

Is it, perhaps, a sliding, zig-zagging snake 

moving through grass unseen, at speed?

Or a tough lizard with hard skin

who can freeze to invisibility, then dart …

or shed its trapped tail, only to grow a new one?

Does it even describe me, still here after all?

Does it describe humanity? And is that good?

I like to think it will be our planet

long after the batterings, the burdens,

the need for speed and hiding, 

and maybe our very selves, are well gone.

Image © Sharyn Williams 2014. This is the cover illustration for one of my e-chapbooks (see right sidebar) and must not be reproduced without permission. I thought it a good illustration for this poem too.


The poem is written in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Resilience.

Goodbye Muhammad

Impossible

that death should finally KO

The Greatest.

We thought he’d be here

always – older and slower, yes,

but still with that smile

lurking in his eyes.

But he taught us

nothing is impossible.

He said that. He showed us,

living his life

on his own terms.

Ah, but death 

sets its own terms too.

Ali is already

two and a half weeks gone,

with his dancing feet 

and his stinging fists,

his wicked words

and his beauty …

his proud head, even in age.

The people of his home

say they remember 

a child who never gave up,

they remember the young hero,

and most of all they recall

the private years 

of a kind, wise old man.

The early dark comes down.

It’s winter solstice here.

We are already a little past

full moon. Brightness

waxes and wanes,

but the good 

don’t always die young.

Written for the latest Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. We were asked if we had written anything on the passing of Muhammad Ali. I hadn't – I thought Gail Hennessy's tribute said it perfectly, and far more economically than this – but, since we were invited....

Intense Rain

Pounding rain, cold rain, flooding rain – it arrives with plenty of warning, with a feeling of inevitability, of doom. It tells us, ‘Yes, here is Winter.’ It travels all down the long east coast of Australia, even to my dear little birth island, so tiny it is sometimes left off the map. I am glad to be far north of there now, removed from that paralysing, deep-frost cold I once knew well. My body still remembers. I remember, too, through all these decades, the aftermath of rain in rural Tasmania: the particular pervasiveness of water dripping from leaves long after the deluge ceased. In this present downpour, everywhere floods – the whole coast, even that island. Here, in the warmer sub-tropics, in the small town where I live now, only the section near the river goes under. Up on my hill, just out of town, I barricade myself inside my cosy house and wait it out.

after the rain

one slow, constant drip –

heavy footsteps

Written for Haibun Monday: 50 Shades of Rain, at dVerse. (I realise belatedly that I was supposed to use the Japanese word for intense rain, shinotsukuame, as my title – but I've constructed this around using the English phrase, so it will have to stay.)

Anti-Social Networking

She flung hard words at me

like stones – in a public forum.

(Could have been worse. Virtual

reality won't break my bones.)

I knew they were fired 

from a slingshot of rage

looking for the nearest target.

It just happened 

that I'd placed myself

in that general direction.

'I'm not playing in your yard

any more,' she yelled,

or words to that effect.

I stated the facts –

which were also points of logic –

calmly, once, then told her

she was free to leave;

no-one would stop her.

Witnesses remarked

on my gift for diplomacy, 

praised me: 'She was upset.

You let her be heard.'

Later, looking back

on what I'd said,

I was proud to discern

that I had delivered 

a perfectly polite,

unassailable, 

'Fuck you!'

Full Moon Night

No ritual –

black sky and pelting rain.

Still I’m woken at 2am.

All is quiet. The sky

is a little light.

I put on shoes and go outside.

Even my cat won’t venture

out into this inhospitable dark –

she who is named

for the Moon Goddess.

She stands inside the door

and waits. I find no break

in the clouds, no sight

of the moon’s round shape,

no trace. Only,

over behind the palms,

the slightest whitening.

It is enough.

I feel the connection

and breathe deep.


Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #312

The Sisters, Death and Night

Those

sisters,

Death and Night,

aren't really twins –

though people assume

they mirror each other.

Both can be sweet or bitter,

soft, or impenetrably dense.

But Night always dresses in darkness.

Death – do notice! – is enfolded in light.

Written for the Sunday Mini-Challenge at 'imaginary garden with real toads', for a poem of 10 lines maximum. The subject of the title, suggested as optional, caught my imagination.

Rapunzel Revisited

Part I

Night's my time; it's always been.

In that stillness, all alone,

I find the thoughts that are my own –

not those another mind has given.

Mine is the deep and silent hour.

My parents gave me into care

of another, cruel 'mother'.

We have no blood nor love to share.

She closed me in this Tower.

In the daylight I can see

from my window every tree,

the orchards fruiting merrily

but never to be plucked by me,

the lonely girl with the long gold hair.

I know she does not value me

except as trophy. I can be

her proof of power. And I see

she likes my long gold hair.

She uses them, these long gold locks –

like steps of a ladder, or piled rocks

to climb to my heights. For what she lacks

is her own way to scale the peaks

of thought I reach within this Tower.

She tells me beauty matters, but

my hair's the only claim I've got

to loveliness. 'It won't be cut!'
– my useful, long gold hair.

Part II

As I watched the landscape darken

underneath the moody moon,

I wove from my imagination

ways to travel out, be gone
from the lonely, stony Tower.

And did I let my hair down

for a prince who ventured from the town

and wound my silly heart around

his finger, like my hair?

It's true that I began to long

to join the playful dance and song

I heard so distantly; to throng

with other girls and boys, along

the paths beyond my stone-walled bower.

But it was I who rescued me.

I cut my own locks, breaking free

of her ideas and tyranny.

I left the blighted Tower.

I was not thrown from the window, nor

left out in the wilderness, dirt-poor,

to moan and sigh, and cry some more.

Not I. I marched from the front door,

turned left to town, and breathed the air.

And yes, I met a lovely boy

who fills my heart with lasting joy.

For he is blind, I'm glad to say

to my lack of long gold hair.

(The form is based on Tennyson's 'The Lady of Shalott', whose circumstances were similar.)

Linked to the Tuesday Platform for 20 Dec. 2016, at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.