Celebrating Sanaa

She wishes to make the world beautiful

And uses the weaving of words –

Not, perhaps, her first language, but one 

Adopted in olden ways she makes new

And rapidly masters, becoming adept.

Right now the world has circled the sun

In joyous return to the date of her birth.

Zealously we accept her poetic invitation,

Very glad to know her and wish for her – in verse,

In all ways: a Happy, splendid, beauteous Birthday!



Sanna Rizvi, who blogs at A Dash of Sunny and hosts weekly prompt nights there, this week invites fellow-poets to celebrate her birthday with poetic wishes. Not a problem; she has become a much-loved member of the poetic blogosphere!  Find more birthday poems here.

My Birth Day

I’ve always loved my birthday being the 12th of November – that number, that name, beautiful in my ears. When, in my romantic teens, sweet Johnny Mathis sang The Twelfth of Never, I secretly claimed it as mine, with the private meaning that I would live forever. (Never mind the logic – I was creating my own.) In Australia, November is late Spring, warming up to expansive Summer but still leavened by breezes and cooler evenings. This year – just a few days ago – I spent my 77th birthday with a congenial friend, cruising on a boat on a tree-lined river, the weather just warm enough. Then we nourished ourselves with a concert culminating in stirring flamenco, a sunset light show projected on the water, and a colourful lantern parade after dark. In late afternoon a wild thunderstorm exploded right overhead – but we were indoors enjoying Devonshire tea just then, and it hit and ran. It only added excitement.

Spring rain

gushes down windows

we can't see through


Linked to dVerse Haibun Monday #25: You say it's your birthday?

Roses for Pat

For Pat Kun

Inhale the scent of roses!

Melbourne is the city of roses.

I shall be there in early October, in Spring,

for a birthday – Pat's eightieth year of youth – 

when, for joy, her home,

white-walled, will smile bright red with roses.

Next year at this time, we’ll recall the big eight zero, 

a giant of a birthday … but days of wine and roses

can be for the tiny little pixie anniversaries too, the non-

zero years. Shall I return, or just send champagne?

Meanwhile, this year and I have flown fast, fast forwarding 

to arrive at this festivity, 

this visit to the city of Melbourne

to see my friend Pat turn 80 and smell the generous roses.

Written according to Ravi Shankar's instructions for a 'Manipulated Fourteen-Line Poem' in the book Wingbeats. The verse breaks are my own, and create a sort of upside-down free-verse sonnet.

A Birthday Dirge for Magaly

Oh Magaly, I’m sad for thee.

How shall I be right glad for thee?

For sure thy birthday 

is no mirth day –

the number of the years

must bring a girl to tears.

But Magaly flung up her head

and to her spurious well-wisher said:

The tomb is dank and full of mould.

Better by far to keep growing old.

The years are mine to live and own,

my path to travel unto Crone.

There’s wisdom in my shining skull

and flesh upon it, firm and full.

My bones will not be clanking yet.

I’ll thank you with this epithet –

If you’ve the urge to sing a dirge,

you silly cow, go take a purge!

For Day 2 in Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, Magaly requested a birthday dirge.

This Moment

Found poem: excerpts from journal entry, 4 February 2001. 

Shaped into poetry 5 May 2015.

To Andrew

this moment:

accompanying him 
to lunch and a movie 
for his birthday. 
He is 72.

He drives along

this winding gravel road,

so narrow

we squeeze to the edge

when cars come the other way.

Relief! Both causeways

are high and dry —

only yesterday

still partly under water.

But the sun is shining.

‘Look!’ I say.

I am thankful

for the ferns of the rainforest,

the sun glancing,

the bends that slow the car,

the smell of leaves.

In a chaos

of flood and danger,

branches down,
time seeming warped,

when we crash over debris

and the car stinks of wet –

in such a space,

these green ferns,

this golden light

soften and soothe

the air, the mood. 

We enter the highway.

Not at all wet here.

What happened

to all the water?

You’d never know; 
so normal.

A syncopated rhythm

plays on the car radio.

‘When the sun shines

on the mountain’

sings the singer.

I realise the man

is singing of freedom

no-one can take away.

Shared in today's Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads.

Birthday Moments

1.

The most unhappy moment on my birthday

was the moment I noticed I’d lost my shawl.

The weather was neither hot nor cold

but warm, with short spurts of rain.

I took my black woollen shawl ‘just in case’.

It was the perfect weight for between seasons.

After lunch I stood to leave the café

and saw I didn’t have it — nowhere at all.

I consoled myself: ‘It was twelve years old’.

Still I went back over the terrain

I’d walked before. Of course, not a trace.

I supposed the Universe must have its reasons.

2.

I recalled being told, a year ago,

‘You should stop wearing so much black.

Get into light colours —pink, blue, green.’

This was said in the course of a healing

so I should have paid it closer attention,

but that shawl was a gift from a dear friend.

The happiest birthday moment, you know,

was kind of the same one, turned on its back.

With my old  shawl nowhere to be seen,

clearly someone had found it and decided on stealing.

I went to the cop shop and made a mention —

then I bought me a present, a pink shawl! The End.

Form: rimas dissolutas.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge, day 12: your happiest and/or saddest moment.  (I've been dealing with deeply sad and intensely happy moments for a year or more, so this time I thought I'd keep it light and shallow!)

Today

I had bread-and-butter pudding

hot from the oven.

I had icecream

and blueberry sauce. 

It was my birthday.

I didn't want chocolate mousse.

I didn't want jam tarts.

I didn't want almond truffles.

I didn't want lemon meringue.

I could have whatever I liked.

And I knew what I wanted,

knew what I'd like.

My Mum used to make

bread-and-butter pudding.

That was when I was little.

I had bread-and-butter pudding

today, for my birthday,

with vanilla icecream 

and blueberry sauce.

Today was the day I turned 74.

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge, day 10: something sweet

Fibonacci Experiments

Family

He 

phones 

tonight,

my birthday;

we talk a long time.

He's my friend as well as my son.

(His father is dead and his brother is lost to us.)

We 

talk 

tablets,

mobile phones —

and his new girlfriend.

At Easter they'll come to visit.

(Small core of family left, we're glad of each other.)

Wet City

My 

love's

drowning:

Venice is

flooded and under

water — that city of water —

of sparkling, of singing water.

Now too much water

washes her:

Venice

my

love.

Continuing

We entered the dark of the moon.

Roses were growing

unseen but

their scent

waft-

ed

fill-

ing

the night

with silent

messages of life

continuing to spend itself.

Fibonacci poems (aka fibs) are syllabic, based on the fibonacci numerical sequence in which each number is added to the preceding to make the next. Zero is understood at the beginning, so the syllables then go: 

1 

(1=0=) 1

(1+1=) 2

(1+2=) 3

(2+3=) 5

(3+5=) 8

(5+8=) 13

Theoretically one could keep going, but in a poem that would get more and more unwieldy. It's usual to stop at 8, but not uncommon to continue to 13. And then, as you see, one can vary the form by doubling, reversing, etc.

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #124

Birthday Greeting Poems

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 11
(After a discussion of the awfulness of flowery greeting-card verses) write or rewrite a greeting card poem so that it has meaning to you, or at least is funny.


It just happens that there are two important birthdays in my life today - my Firstborn Son's 42nd, and my Third GodDaughter's 18th. So here are the poems: both meaningful, one (mostly) funny.


Happy Birthday To A Wonderful Son

Thank you for being a wonderful son.
Thank you for not exploding yourself
that time you put a match
to the not-quite-empty petrol barrel –
but merely singeing your eyelashes off.
They and the missing patches of hair grew back.

I can still see your tiny naked feet
running happily across the lounge-room carpet
leaving footprints of brown fence paint.
You were delighted that you’d been smart
and taken off all your clothes before
you decorated your whole body. So was I.

You always had such a kind heart.
When you were only a few years older,
your father’s workmate Ron was truly amazed
to see his brand-new car, parked in our driveway,
improved by a free paint job – the brown again.
(Of course, you did have some help from other kids.)

At only 11 you found true love
and for years afterwards stayed in your room
playing with your instrument: your first computer.
As those years passed, your father and I
began to wonder if you’d still be there at 50.
But then at last you discovered girls.

Along the way you made luscious Pavlovas,
gave me helpful hints on my driving skills
and refrained from killing your little brother.
You were still a toddler when you begged
from the back seat of the car, “Mummy and Daddy,
please don’t sing.”  No doubt it was good advice.

We’ve had great talks at times. You’ve always been
wise, thoughtful and understanding. I like that you like
writers whom I like too and share my taste in theatre.
I like that you're now telling me which books are good
and which new shows. And even your furious corrections
when I forward the nuttier emails that go the rounds.

And it’s very sweet of you not to publish too many
of the poems and stories you write. It would never do
to show up the lesser talents of your mother, or my lesser
self-critical faculties…. Finally, I can’t believe you’re 42!
Or ourselves already so Senior. I’m sure you’ll be pleased
to know we’ve decided to move in with you next week.


Happy 18th Birthday!
(To my GodDaughter M)

When you were a baby
you crawled downstairs
headfirst, smiling.
You still plunge boldly.

When the young babysitter
couldn’t calm you,
sometimes I could.
I was more familiar, perhaps.

Now you surprise me with love
just because I’m your Godmother.
And you don’t treat me
like an old lady.

I have forgiven you
for throwing things at my cat.
You were only a toddler.
(Mind you, it took a while.)

We read each other’s
journals and blogs.
What we find there
stays between us.

You like to write, like me.
You like to sing; I’d like
to have a voice for singing.
We rib each other and laugh.

Today you’re 18, old enough
to toss down a legal Jack Daniels
and have consensual sex –
if you could figure out who with.

You’re old enough to vote
and drive a car. The time
is now. What was it you wanted
to be when you grew up?

Andrew's 80th (April Challenge 25)

Prompt: An event (think party).
(This is a double Anacreontic verse.)

The night was stormy.
Rain and flood
prevented some,
others braved
a scary highway.
Maureen climbed up
to disconnect
the smoke alarm,
set off by cooking.
Omni brought
dinkum gem scones.
(Before shaman
she was bush cook.)
Debbie brought
the dancing music:
jive and twist
and Neil Diamond.
The birthday cake
was chocolate mud;
Maureen made it.

Andrew’s niece,
the lovely Lindy,
flew from Melbourne.
Jokes: by plane
or was it a broom?
Andrew danced
with me and Deb.
The smile on his face
grew wider all night.
He gave a speech
that made us laugh
and made us cry.
“We love you, Andrew,”
shouted Sharon.
Stand-up comic
Dinah emceed,
very rude,
we loved her stuff.
James recorded
it all on Flip.

Happy Birthday

Prompt: a poem about a painful experience or one involving some other emotion, without stating the emotion. I've written enough pain poems this year to last a lifetime! So this isn't.

On your very first birthday
what did I give you,
knowing I gave?

A long journey
twelve hours, exhausting.
The briefest touch of my arms.

And instant recognition:
you could only be mine,
with those family features.

I gave you
a mother too tired
to hold you long that first time,

one who couldn’t feed you,
but could later cuddle, talk to you, rock
once we got the bottle right.

Much later I discovered
other things I gave you
from the first –

a love of poetry
and the gift to write it
from my Dad and his Dad and me

and music, not from
but through me,
one of my mother’s talents.

Now you’re 41
in just a few days.
I can’t believe it.

It’s hard to know what
I might give you this birthday.
Usually I don’t, just a call

or an email. We always say
we don’t need words –
we who love them.

And these days it’s you
who finds gifts for me,
nearly always a perfect book.


"Happy Birthday" is the Midweek Motif prompt at Poets United for 19 March 2014.  This seems a perfect piece to submit!