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