The Necessity of Being Specific

I pasted on my treasure map

the words ‘Bonjour Paris’

and a picture of the Eiffel Tower.

Be careful – not only what 

you wish for, but how! I dreamed

of visiting that legendary city, but

(this was already years ago) I never

went to Paris, walked those streets

nor drove ‘with the warm wind’ etc.

But treasure maps work! Backpacker son

surprised me one day that year, with

a phone call: ‘G’day! Guess where?’

This is a true story, but the illustration is not from my long-discarded treasure map (aka vision board) but a fabric detail photographed by Margaret Bednar who, in Artistic Interpretations at 'imaginary garden with real toads' invites us to choose one of several as inspiration.

The Child Listening

the child listening 
to the flower with closed eyes
doesn’t know he’s dead
already and the flower
also dead whispers of life


For Day 7 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads', Let's Paint a Picture, we are invited to write a tanka on a painting by Kaoro Kawano.

The image is from WikiArt and is used according to Fair Use Principles.

I usually don't worry about strict syllable count for tanka and do worry about other traditions; this time it's rather the opposite.

I wanted the small ambiguities (which may be too small to be seen!).

Yes, I was thinking of the children's deaths in Syria – but I am sadly sure they would not have been so gentle as my poem implies.

Inspired by the Poetry of Thom Gunn

How gratefully his words describe a hug

that holds his resting body all night long.

With what restraint, yet cruel accuracy

he observes the tattooed street kid ‘born to lose’.

In detailed metaphor, and with respect,

he gives me new perspective on a snail.

He painted sharp a scene that I still see

of lovers bathing, forty years ago.

There’s quietness even in dramatic lines,

which goes too deep for me to emulate.

He’s dead. He left me art I can’t forget

which shakes me, fills me, and restores my peace –

for beauty so well ordered can do that –
a man I never knew, a stranger I love.

In the Sunday Mini-Challenge at 'imaginary garden for real toads' Grace invites us to write something inspired by Thom Gunn – a poet of whom I am so much in awe that at first I didn't think I could. But after all, I wasn't asked to live up to him.

I'm also linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #269

The Water-Colour Sketcher

for Claudia Schoenfeld

In her heart is the music of light.

She doesn't worry

about capturing the exact, neat shape

of the cup with the blue flowers;

what she wants is that blue on that white,

and the half-moon swirl of the coffee

glimpsed over the rim.

She is after the blobby orange

of a sunset sky, or a pale lemon moon

reflected in dark water. Her Eiffel Tower 

curls back into distance

like a dancer abandoned to music.

Her motorbike riders, bright red,

rush towards me out of their street

and out of her picture; I see them 

swerve to miss me.

Everything's alive,

nothing is static.

It all sings.

Written in response to a dVerse prompt and the sketches of Claudia Schoenfeld. I was inspired by all rather than one. I would call her art impressionistic, and my response is very much the impression it made on me, with details jumping out from the collective effect. A quick impression — a closer look reveals there is only one rider on that bike; but never mind, I'll stay true to the first impression.

The House

I always wanted

a little house by the seashore —

a house with a red roof,

a house built up on stilts

to make a cellar underneath,

big windows in every wall

for me to look out 

at the billowing sea

and the grass on top of the cliff.

I always wanted

a house on top of a cliff,

overlooking the sea.

And somewhere back from the edge,

behind it, there must be

acres of thick rainforest.

Maybe this house

is somewhere in North Queensland,

in a space I haven’t found.

Poor house, 

is it waiting for me?

When I built it in dreams,

did it grow up fully formed?

How long has it waited

there on the edge of the cliff

with the ocean below

and the forest behind,

The Green Grass of Home underfoot?

Poor house,

it has waited too long; it has crumbled.

I never went and found it

and now I am old.

The roof has lost its paint.

The steps to the front door

are falling away,

and the door itself is gone.

The wind blows through.

Perhaps it is not too late.

Perhaps one night, 

in the middle of a dream, 

I may rise;

I may follow a path

through wilderness,

guided by clouds.

With love, the old waiting house

restored, will welcome me in.

Image by contemporary American photographer Robert Dawson.

In view of the recent poetry plagiarism scandals in Australia, let me point out that the reference to ‘The Green Grass of Home’ is an intentional allusion to the nostalgic song (although in that case, the word ‘green’ is repeated).

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge, day 11: ekphrastic poetry

Fire

(Print of a line work 

by the late Tyren Laidlaw)

The artist makes fire burn

not only red and yellow,

also blue and green

and charred black.

Her flames twirl and spread.

Some at the heart are white-hot. 

Fire goes up and down 

and travels.

It is burning the air,

it is crackling

up off the still page,

it is saying, 'Life!'

Poetic Asides April Poem A Day Challenge 2013, 19: burn

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #147

Margaret Olley

(Exhibition, Tweed River Art Gallery, April 2013*)

She kept painting

in her cluttered rooms,

described as having

gentle light.

Those oranges — 

how bright they bloom, 

with what rich colour, 

their pitted, dimpled skin 

tactile; you know

its exact thickness

and how sweet the juice.

The cornflowers

and the marigolds

and the sunny calendulas

glow, living within

and transcending the canvas.

Her self-portraits

on the other hand

are dim, shaded,

although the expression arrests.

Luckily other artists

have painted her vivid self:

grand in her full-bosomed prime 

or her candid, unashamed age —

elegantly flamboyant 

in elaborate picture hat 

and billowing gown,

or liver-spotted and wide-eyed

under an old sun-hat.

We watch the video.

No easel; she allocates

a tiny spot of floor

to spread her canvas,

crouches there....

Her painting arm 

is swift and confident.

I look again at her 'yellow room',

her kettles, 

her exotic bottles, 

padded armchairs,

Persian rugs ...

Then I walk out into a gallery

full of works I'd normally find

far more interesting to me

than still life could possibly be.

This time, though, 

they are pale as dust

after her vibrancy.

*It's all about the light: works by Margaret Olley from public collections

About Margaret Olley

Dobell portrait

Quilty potrait

Images of Olley and her work

This poem submitted for Poets United's Verse First: coloured