Cleaning the Mind

The rain is intermittent

its music cannot hold,

the sad cafes are emptying

along the river bank,

the sky's washed fresh.

A boatman paddles

thinner into distance,

buffalos loll

to their ears in wet,

the paddies are pale gold.

A garden open to the eye,

a beach without a footprint.

Clear and straight, I journey

back to a time of light

no grime obscures.

Published in Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985 

and Secret Leopard, Alyscamp Press (Paris) 2005.

Submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight #84. 
Alas, I was too late to submit it for dVerse Poetics: Leonard Cohen and Place, where it clearly belongs.

Once upon a time I had a very romantic affair, in Bali, with the young man who first introduced me to the poems, novels and songs of Leonard Cohen. He used to sing Cohen's 'Suzanne' to me, implying that I was his Suzanne. This poem was written years after that relationship ended, when the happy memory helped me deal with some unpleasantness in my life. It's a very old poem now, but perfect for that prompt.

Another year, another word

I am 71 now, which gives me another word to play with — if anyone except me is counting.

This blog has been languishing many months (again!) while I've been busy with other projects. But, however slowly, it shall continue.

I resume at this particular time because, whilst I always intended to write a poem on my next subject, it happens that I need it now to complete a series on Bali which has just appeared at my Passionate Crone blog.

Defining Moment

(Triolet)

At Uluwatu the water boiled green.
Su was with me in the temple on the cliff.
Was there anything more beautiful I’d ever seen?
At Uluwatu the water boiled green
and the froth was lacy. I had not foreseen
that gorgeous abyss, the unspoken ‘What if?’
At Uluwatu the water boiled green
as Su and I stood on top of the cliff.


November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2010: 23
Prompt: a ‘form’ poem.

Submitted for dVerse Poetics: It's Tempting

Regret

Mendra’s drawings were thrown away.
‘We’ll go back there another day,
and get some better ones,’ I said.
Three months later Mendra was dead.
We never went back anyway.

In gifted drawings, he’d portray
the things he had no speech to say
from out his deaf-mute, silenced head.
Mendra’s drawings,

which he made for my sons in play
and in love, on our final day,
scribbled on scraps of a note-pad,
turned out to be all that we had
of our friend. But I threw away
Mendra’s drawings.


November PAD Chapbook Challenge 210: 16/2
Prompt: an unstacking poem

(And it's another rondeau.)

Oh Golden Lad

Oh golden lad, where are you now?
I hope not gone to dust below
the ground, or into the last fire.
You were the all of my desire
when you were young, so long ago.

It was thirty-seven years ago
we first locked eyes. How could we know
that swift passion would not expire,
oh golden lad?

And yet we always had to go:
too soon, too far each parting. So
those flames were not to flare higher.
Nor yet would they die down entire —
as you too, if you live, will know,
oh golden lad.

November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2010: 10
Prompt: a love poem

Balinese Time

The bride’s sixteen-year-old cousin
wore one white flower in her hair
(frangipanni). She herself
was beauty in bloom.

We had time to gaze,
standing about in the courtyard.
Honoured to be asked,
we made sure to arrive promptly
but nothing seemed to be happening.

Where were we meant to sit?
When would the priest turn up?
With such a long delay,
why did no-one look tense?

I approached the bridegroom’s aunt,
our chamber-maid who invited us.
‘When does the wedding start?’
She smiled, waggling her fingers. ‘Oh,
when we are ready, we begin.’

Gradually the courtyard filled.
Reaching for a delicacy on a passing tray,
I was politely admonished:
‘The old ones first. It will come to you.’

During the tooth filing ceremony,
that sacred Balinese ritual
without which they could not wed,
the bride was pale with fear
and brave, uttering no sound.

Her headdress was like a cupola.
The groom wore a long jacket
of bright embroidery, red and gold.
A gamelan orchestra played into dusk.

                  ******

Three weeks later, we had the rhythm.
You can’t walk fast in floppy thongs
nor try to hurry the tide. The buffalo
move slow in the paddies, as do
women with baskets on their heads.

The chambermaid asked, ‘What time
do you make your tour today?’
‘When we are ready, we will leave,‘
we said. Then we all laughed.


November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2010: 9
Prompt: a ‘go slow’ poem.

Submitted in May 2013 for dVerse Poetics: 'Asians Are Ugly!' (We are invited to write of our own Asian experiences. This is one of many poems about my Bali experiences, which taught me that Asians are beautiful.)

Leaving Bali

I wasn’t ready yet to leave
the tiny island, nor to grieve
so heartbrokenly and so long
as I knew I must. It was wrong,
I said. Indeed, I still believe
I wasn’t ready.

For all my mourning, no reprieve
was possible; I had to leave
the colour, the fragrance, the song.
I wasn’t ready

to farewell new friends: either give
them a last goodbye, or deceive
them and me with, ‘It won’t be long.’
My companion told me, ‘Be strong!’
How optimistic, how naive —
I wasn’t ready.


November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2010: 2
Prompt: a ‘not ready’ poem

(An attempt at the rondeau form)