Nonsensical Science

or, I Can't Really Explain Particle-wave Dualism, But ...

Part icicle, part wave,

part way particular,

part way vast,

a participle, a particle,

a weave, a way of

coming apart, or a part 

of the weave, or the wave

of the future, or

part of the past …

let’s waive that part –

it tickles!

For day 30 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads', we are asked to grapple with physics, specifically: Particle-wave dualism and the photoelectric effect.  Science isn't nonsense, but my grasp of it – well....

A Conversation with Mr Campbell

Joseph, I said, I think you've got this bit wrong.

Or maybe it was your mate, Brendan, 

the way he restated it. Be that as it may ...

I'm not arguing with you about all that Heroic 

Journey stuff, you know we all love that –

it's not even a matter of believing in it as such;

it's so appealing, everyone just took it on,

decided to wear it and swore that it fit (one size 

fits all – perhaps with a bit of twisting and tugging, 

but anyway good enough). No, it isn't that, it's 

this other thing, about the penultimate moment

of a journey – the second-last kiss, or whatever –

being the very best bit. Oh, you make a good case.

It all sounds positively exhilarating, the way 

you tell it, and for a minute there I didn't even

question if it were so – until I was invited

to write a poem in support of this proposition.

Well! That soon sorted me out. I mean, really?

You think getting ready to step off the plane is better 

than that moment when you're through Customs 

(finally) and walk out into a brand-new country? 

And as for second-last kisses, they were precious

of course, like the first, and the third, and the seventeenth,

and the five hundredth, and so on and so on, and all....

But you remember the last. I remember the last.

And the final words, and the final smile, or tear,

and the sight of him walking away that very last time, 

even if I didn't know then that it was the last time. 

And the times I did know, when he and she and they, 

one by one, individually, took that last breath.

And then I shut up, and Joseph, too, kept quiet 

(as the grave – being dead, after all). 

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' for day 29 of April Poetry Month, Penultimatums, Brendan MacOdrum invites us to consider a tale of St Brendan and some words of Joseph Campbell in support of the idea that penultimate moments are often the richest. 

Here is an earlier, very different response to the same prompt.

Stopping Short

Stop pouring just before 

the cup is full and flows over.

Leave room in the glass

to savour the wine’s bouquet.

Pick the fruit just before it ripens.

Don't let it rot, uneaten in the bowl.

Pick the flowers before full bloom,

so they brighten your room longer.

Leave one chocolate in the box,

to enjoy tomorrow.

Pause, don't go over the edge...

– No, sorry; this is all too careful for me.

I'll always scoff that last chocolate,
and go full tilt right over the edge.

I want to gulp my life, not sip!
(Besides, there are no ends, only beginnings.)

Written for Penultimatums, day 29 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads, in which we are invited to savour the moment before completion. I take the point, but somehow found myself writing something I didn't believe in, so changed the direction of the poem mid-stream.

And then I wrote another on the same topic: click here.

My Bogeyman

Gaining on me in dreams,

chasing me through the dark,

contorted face distorted –

human or monstrous? Both.

Large and hunched, hulking.

Big feet thudding just behind me,

huge arms reaching to grab.

Exhaustion, terror. Any minute....

Always running, running, running.

That was the frightful thing – that pitch

of anticipation (his breath on my neck)

of sudden, final, shrieking horror.

Which never happened, 

though it always felt so close.

Poor Bogeyman, are you still

out there somewhere, running,

never quite catching up? Or did I

in some unremembered moment

turn at last and embrace you, 

kissing your ugly, yearning face? 

Written for day 28 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': Boogeyman (called 'bogeyman' here, when I was growing up.)

A Grain of Sand from the Hourglass

One more grain of sand

rolls through the hourglass;

his voice long stilled, and even I 

am not that girl who once….

He was so much of his time!

And so, of course, was I. No wonder

I loved his poetry, its haunting

melancholic nuances, the longing

for beauty and freedom and a world

of perfect love – we children

of the flowers … now I read 

predictions of war, and I think

we were not so wrong to want

magic and poetry and a dream

of love and peace. Were we?

Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ A Grain of Sand.

Writing Shoes

When I put on my writing shoes

I can write poems that run fast,

straight into your hearts, poems

that have a spring in their steps 

to make you feel jubilant and

just a little bit childlike; joyous

and energetic poems that keep on

skipping about without getting tired;

poems that leap tall troubles in a –

you know – single bound, so you

feel good, good, good! And when I 

put on my other writing shoes, they

make the poems tiptoe softly, not

to disturb but to enter your dreams,

where they will dance for you, or

with you; or poems that walk right up

beside you and wait until you see them

and see they are just what you need, 

and then, if you listen, they’ll speak.


Written for Writing Shoes, day 27 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Outside the Body

We were dancing around in a circle

and bashing wooden spoons on saucepan lids;

we were twirling and spinning and whirling,

and sometimes, on purpose, doing small skids –

me, my little brother, my Dad (all kids!).

As my body kept the rhythm and pace,

and I still had the grin stuck on my face,

I found myself suddenly outside me

in a floaty, dreamy, delightful place:

watching it all from there, perfectly free.

Then, gradually, gasping and laughing, 

we faltered, wound down, and finally stopped.

Resuming my body, I slipped half in –

I realised later. At the time, flopped

happily breathless on a table topped

with my Dad’s dear pots of maidenhair fern

(on the back veranda, catching the sun)

I didn't know part of me was still out.

Decades later, a friend who was shaman
saw and restored that ethereal part.

Written for Outsider Art, day 26 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. 

(Yes, true story.)

My Anzac Day

War planes are flying over the town.

I hear them above the low cloud cover,

rumbling their way to the local park

to salute the Anzac Day celebration.

I am not at the Dawn Service.

'At the going down of the sun,' 

I might remember them – 'and 

in the morning,' but not at dawn.

I sleep sound – partly, no doubt

because men of my father's

and grandfathers' generations 

fought and didn't always return.

My Dad didn't dress up in his uniform

like the others, and march. That was because 

he couldn't, with his gammy leg

(acquired not in war but when he was 10).

It kept him from the front, too, 

but he went to Camp in Central Australia

(somewhere secret) – so I was just as much 

fatherless – training to repel invasion.

He used to lift me up on his shoulders

to watch our town's old diggers march:

his mates, eyes right, looking proud and smart.

I knew them as humble, kindly men.

In my passionate youth, I rejected

Anzac Day, that holy of holies,

as glorification of war – like so many

did at that time, from my generation.

We were Make love not war,

we were Give peace a chance.

But the fire and the noise of our views

for a time divided our nation.

And then, eventually, we all grew up.

After Vietnam, even our parents could see,

all wars dirty your hands. After East Timor, 

even I understood, some fights need to happen.

In recent years I went through a phase

of watching the big Sydney march

on the telly, feeling surprisingly sentimental

for all who survived and all who are gone.

This year, I won't. There's too much war 

in the world again. I'm meeting with other 

mothers and crones instead, to enquire, 
'How can we strengthen our light?' and begin.

Linking to The Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads' on day 25 of April Poetry Month.

Also linked to Protest and Outrage: Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, hosted by Magaly Guerrero.

Photo: Challenge by Agnes Lawrence Pelton (1940), shown here in accordance with Fair Use. This was posted with the prompt at 'imaginary garden'. Also it reminds me that the Australian AIF military badge during World War 2 was in the shape of a rising sun (which I believe I am not allowed to reproduce here for legal reasons).

Reason for Shrieking?

Of all hues, 

the most beautiful blue

adorns the neck

of the male peacock,

his long satiny throat

shining as if for joy – 

and repeats at the centre

of each open eye

on the fan 

of his billowing tail.

The feathers

are called unlucky,

his singular cry 

heard as a death-knell. 

Why do we feel

threatened by beauty

so extreme; why see evil 

in innocence? Why? 

Is it because, unique, 

he is far too strange?

Labelled as vain

yet he struts for love,

holding his tail aloft

with effort that tires.

He is calling out

for home and family,

parading for a mate,

as all creatures

desire and need;

not for vanity.

In his Rajasthan home

his display is seasonal, 

pre-monsoon. He heralds 

the coming of rain 

to the parched land.

When I was a child 

in cold Tasmania,

peacocks at The Gorge

strutted, displayed and cried

at any time, sounding sad.

Written for Artistic Interpretations – Beauty, day 24 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads' (we could write about beauty or peacocks or both), and for Magaly's Protest and Outrage: Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month.   

– Photo above: "Peacock at Magnolia Garden, SC" by Margaret at 'imaginary garden'.

Planet Icarus

(in climate change future)

All day all the glass 

in all the buildings 

cracked then shattered.

That night many

no longer breathed –

not enough air.

The dirt turned red,

hard as stone. Only the ants 

marched across dry landscapes.

Even eagles faltered 

in the hot sun, and fell 

dead out of the sky.

Written for Magaly Guerrero's Protest and Outrage: Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month.

This began as the following erasure poem from Michael Dransfield's 'Icarus', then I expanded it into something else (which nevertheless can't quite escape its origins).

All day

glass shattered

night breathed not

red stone marched 

eagles faltered 

in hot sun.

Portraying Icarus

He makes death 

sound beautiful,

defeat

feel triumphant.

This he does 

with the music

of his words,

mellifluous words.

Does he want

that  humans,

aspiring to fly,

be angels?

Or is it 

the crash

he craves – 
its blaze of glory?

A response to Michael Dransfield's poem, Icarus, written for FASHION ME YOUR WORDS ~ The way you see it, day 23 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Also submitted for Magaly's Protest and Outrage: Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month

Luxuriant Saturday

An afternoon shower. Clean sheets 

and fresh pyjamas. The book I'm reading. 

Cushions to prop me up, half-sitting.

Raisin toast and coffee on the bedside table. 

My cat lying close beside me, purring.

Then the cat vacates, as I'm joined

by one of my favourite men. 'I'm having 

a little lie down,' I say. 'My dear,' says he, 

appreciating all the details, 'You're not 

just lying down – you're luxuriating!' 

We giggle, as he wickedly suggests 

I tell my girlfriends how my luxuriant event

was enhanced when a male friend joined me ... 

by phone of course! I inform him it's really

a threesome: one girlfriend too, via tablet.

We do love each other, though not 'like that'.

He tells me how to fill my spine with light

and send it out to the world through my crown –

and also what to use to clear my sinuses,

and things to be aware of when I set up my new telly.

Linda sends me a picture of her cat, which is

curled beside her on her bed, purring. She too

is having a lie down, with coffee and cake. I tell her

James calls it luxuriating. She embraces the word.

I compliment James on his use of language.

Linda's cat, Sarabi, in the photo she sent me.

I'm linking this poem to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #350

A Painting by Mi Young Lee

The blue eye of the painting

looks out at me guilelessly.

There are windows of sky,

some sunny and one 

dark with storm clouds.

Green leaves fall brightly

past the panes, and a yellow

(this is Autumn) and some red.

Red tiles frame the glass.

I set this down, each element

as it strikes me, thinking

when I have accumulated 

the small pieces of description,

like a jigsaw they will combine

into clear meaning. This

does not happen. It wasn't

in pieces anyway, and the whole

painting, undisturbed, smiles at me.

Written for Bits of Inspiration, day 22 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. We were asked to use this painting for inspiration.

Sedated

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream (Harlan Ellison)

You have taken my mouth, 

stolen it from me, 

sealed it up with chemicals.

What you seek to remove

is the scream, 

but it still lives inside me.

You thought you could freeze it 

into silence; instead

it is dammed up, and pushing

against the restraining wall.

It will break out –

it will reach the edge

and roll over it, pouring

into utterance. And then
you should watch out.

Written for Magaly's prompt: "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream" (title of a short story by Harlan Ellison) for day 21 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Also linked to Protest and Outrage: Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, 2017

I'm thankful not to have read the Ellison story; it sounds horrendous from the title alone! My poem is not autobiography but a fictional persona, based on things I have learned about psychiatric hospitals of the sixties and early seventies. 

Encountering Crows

Hekate’s birds: I know

when I see three, 

She is sending a sign

and I smile. 

I might be walking

I might be driving.

Either way, 

my black cloak

wraps around me 

etherically,

invisible to your sight.

But they see, the crows.

And She,

through their eyes,

looks and sees 
me.

Written in response to Fireblossom Friday : Corvid and sit a while, day 20 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Image: public domain.

Holidays, Holy Days

Well, you know, I'm an Aussie.

We're not very churchy.

Some of us do go (and then

there are all those other faiths) 

but, as I once explained to a Yank 

whose obscure – to me –

reference to Easter in a poem

he had to elucidate for yours truly:

Australia is a much more

secular country than the U S of A.

But holidays – we do have them.

Two in particular. Some of us (ssh!)

aren't all that sporty, but even we

hold it as our sacred duty

to drop everything twice a year – 

for the Melbourne Cup of course,

and the AFL grand final (footy to you ...

though different States have other codes).

Don't argue! We mean it seriously. 

And take it seriously too, by all that's holy!

(It is often said that our national religion is sport.)

Written for Midweek Motif ~ Holiness / Holy Day at  Poets United

Clearing Out the Wardrobe

I was ruthless –

didn't want to keep

an empty shrine

of all your clothes

without you in them;

made the choice not

to open the cupboard,

look at them and cry.

I put them in a collection bag

I knew would be taken

far out of town, away 

from local op-shops

and the chance I might see

someone else wearing them –

even a whole lot of someones,

none of whom would be you.

I wanted them out of the house.

You were still here, lingering

in every room, walking

along the passage, sitting

at your desk in front of the computer

or in your favourite armchair.

I didn't need or desire 

physical reminders, I thought.

Of course I was too hasty.

Grieving, I caught a cold,

put myself, sneezing, to bed.

A bed without you in it

to cuddle and warm me.

I curled in a ball anyway –

but how I wished I could wrap myself

in your old green flannel pyjama jacket.

Written for Sanaa's inaugural prompt for day 19 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': to write about love, using a common everyday image.

Over Under Through

How to get by in a crisis

‘Just keep putting one foot

after the other,’ my Grandma said

often, while I was growing up,

her voice practical and calm....

She had already left this path

by the time, many years later, 
my shrink said the same, adding:

‘After a while, if you look back 

over your shoulder, you’ll find

you’ve travelled quite a long way.’

It’s good advice. I’ve proved that.

Still, while you’re putting those feet down,

what are you doing with your hands?

I don’t know about you – but me,

I’m writing poetry. Always. It’s what I do.

I could say it’s a light in darkness

to guide my steps. A rainbow

spanning a stormy sky. An eagle 

flying high, then gliding –

coasting on the wind currents.

I could say that. But it’s not the point.

No, think of it as a piece of knitting 

(repetitive patterns, comforting)

in an item you’re making, designed

to keep you warm when it’s finished.

Or think of it as the wooden spoon

you’re using to stir the soup,

after you’ve chopped up 

all the vegetables and put them 

into the pot. Soup that will feed you.

When there’s nothing you can do,

nowhere you can go, just keep on 

putting one foot after another. 

It’ll take you a long way. 
Meanwhile, keep your hands busy.

Written for day 17 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': Over // Under // Through, about challenges and rising to challenges (or not). 

Streetlight, Rain

(American sentences)

Streetlight, rain, a rain-blurred moon in a black sky – my Autumn neighbourhood.

After the big April floods bumpy road surfaces muddy edges.

Flood-ruined possessions line the streets, piled as high as the water was.

Climate change summer too hot too wet: garden of weeds and mosquitos.

After a few days the rain stops; after a few more the cat ventures out.

A branch from the bush with red flowers juts across the path: pruning time.

Music piercing walls and scaling fences: schoolboy neighbour's recorder.

Shrieking cockatoos fly over at twilight, urging each other home.

When shops and businesses shut for the night, it’s already sunset.

Summer over, I wear pyjamas to bed; the cat snuggles closer.

Day 16 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads' is Micro Poetry ~ Streetlight Rain in which we are invited to write poem of 10 lines or less, or to try the American Sentences invented by Allen Ginsberg as a Western kind of haiku, or to focus on the theme 'Streetlight, Rain'. So I thought I'd try the lot! If my 10 separate American sentences don't exactly constitute one poem, they at least have a common subject, all being descriptive of this time of year where I live.

Long John Looks back

He was a good lad,

a right good lad. 

I liked the boy well, 
he had a lot 

of possibilities.

Mighta been

the kid I never had.

Could-a taught him

a good trick or two

for making his way.

But, when you came

right down to it,

he was one of them –

not exactly gentry

his own self, but

fixing to earn their praise

and respect, and get on

that way, rising 

by virtue of virtue,

you might say.

Ah, Jim! I was never

going let them kill ye.

Too bad we didn’t both

get away together

with all that treasure. 

It could have been

a grand life. But there –

I’m getting too old

to travel with youngsters.

And me pretty parrot …

ah, she’d have got jealous
would Captain Flint,
and I couldn’t have that.
Been with me a long time,
that cranky old bird.

Robert Newton as Long John Silver, in the 1950 Treasure Island movie. Image: Public Domain.

Poem written for The Villain Speaks, Day 15 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Invisibility

You can't be invisible

if you're a star;

you can be invisible

if you're a man with a gun.

You can still be innocent

when you're a star;

you can kill like a militant

when you're a man with a gun.

The man with the gun

travelled far,

invisibly, until

he shot the star.

He killed her dead

then he turned the gun

onto himself,

and the thing was done.

Oh we can't make meaning

out of stupidity,

we can't turn insanity

into lucidity.

Goodbye, bright girl,

your star has shone,

your future invisibled

by the man with the gun.

Inspired by the story of singer Christina Grimmie, as told on Day 14 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads', in conjunction with the prompt, Invisible.

The Scam

To the prison poets, 16 years later

Poetry, that bridge

across separate realities, 

lifted me out of the dark

to see and know

the lie lying over you

as untrue. 

That tomb, prison,

left many marks I'm sure,

but they were not you.

Only the marks you made,

on the page, revealed

the true soul – so far

from everyday reality,

and so much more real.

Sad, then, 

that after all

physical freedom threw you

back to the world's fraud

where we all act out 

external roles

learned early.

What got you in there

engulfed you again, out.

The brawler, the drunk,

the druggie, the thief,

the hustler, the sucker 

found no other way

of coping. Poetry

doesn't pay the rent

or put food on the table,

and when it gets you the girl

it doesn't teach you

how to live with her,

how to keep her.

Sorry, I didn't mean

to do such a good con job.

I myself was gullible.

It worked for me –

but I started out

luckier, I guess.

There were those of you 
(few) 
turned it around,
became

after false starts

amalgamated:

inner and outer man

combining to be new,

and grow.

Some, as far as I know,

still make poems. 

Others stopped.

This has nothing to do

with which ones 

changed their lives,

and who did not.

Poetry and I 

might be

irrelevant.

Once upon a time I was a poetry tutor in a men's prison. They were all poets already and had approached the Poets Union, through their Education Officer, to ask for a regular workshop.

For this poem I used a word list from 'imaginary garden with real toads' for Get Listed – April Ain't Fooling Edition, Day 13 of April Poetry Month. We were asked to use at least three of these words (I used all but one): bridge, con, lie, tomb, scam, gullible, fraud, president, hustler, sucker, mark, prison. 

Also linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #349.

The Unforgiveable

Of all the various things for which

I might have withheld forgiveness,

one remains. When we moved house

and that kid helpfully watered 

the garden beds along the low veranda

and also my just unloaded tea-chests of books,

I knew what to do. 'Give me a hammer.'

I was going to claw open the lids

and set the books standing upright, 

pages open to dry. But you were fierce

insisting I must not, while she, 

the mother of the boy, soothed: 

'Just see them safe, undamaged.

Just know they will be all right.'

No matter I begged and cried.

Apart from anything else, 

I couldn't find your damn hammer.

And no-one would help. You all acted

as if I was a foolish, hysterical child.

I don't know why you took that attitude.

Was it because she was pretty; did you 

wish to impress? Was it to spare 

the feelings of the ignorant boy?

You said there was no room

to spread the books to dry – but there was.

We could easily have shifted chairs,

made more space in that vast living-room,

anything – but it had to be done at once.

Of course, when finally I was allowed

to prise the crates open, I was lucky

that only some by then bloomed with mould,

only some had the ink running and blurring

on authors' signatures, only some

were water-swollen out of shape, and only

some were destroyed beyond legibility,

and so beyond keeping. And of those,

not all were irreplaceable. Many I had not

treasured from childhood. Most were not even

expensive volumes in monetary terms.

You never said sorry. I know that you never

let yourself understand why I didn't just

get over it, like a sensible person.

Written in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Books.

I should add that it was a long time ago (1987) – and since then I have always owned my own hammer!

In Defence of Weeds

(Make love not war)

Now the harsh sun

softens for Autumn,

the drenching rain 

becomes a trickle, a drizzle –

don’t begin a dirty war, 

don’t kill our thriving weeds!

They that grow

with hardy ease

are to cherish:

medicine plants.

Let them flourish! 
Let them nourish the bees.

Picture: Megan Stoyles, October 20, 1966. See this article in the Canberra Times for details. Photo used according to Fair Use principles. 

For Signs of the Times, Day 12 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are invited to let a protest sign inspire us to a non-political poem. This has always been my favourite – and the image was famous at the time.

This piece was simultaneously written for Quadrille #30 at dVerse: a 44-word poem containing the word 'drizzle'.

Never Call Me Rose (It Hurts Too Much)

on being asked if a song had ever saved my life

No song came to save his life. 

He was alone that night, when he took it.

Mine thereafter was not in need of saving.

With his death, I too was dead already

only still walking around in a body.

But eventually my blank brain

heard some words which pierced

months of numbness, though gently sung: 

When the night has been too lonely

and the road has been too long ...

and I forgave him then, and became –

well I wouldn't say reconciled, but at least

I understood that some things 

can be too much to bear. And so 

I came alive again, into pain.

Day 11 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads' is the unprompted Tuesday Platform ... but the question, 'Has a song saved your life?' was offered as a suggestion.

Yes it is a true story, but it happened 35 years ago. (Though, obviously, I have not forgotten.)