case study #7
she makes peace with past tears ;
ignores the radio’s roster of sad songs
background faint which seek to suck
her into sinkholes she’s spent years
climbing out of ; sliding back in
– a triumph just buying milk
he prepares a packet-free meal ;
washes a load sans tissue-in-pocket ;
actually eats the watermelon before
it emulsifies in its clingwrap shroud
– little victories by most parameters
but he’ll take them ; gladly
& so we assemble our fragments
Good Lord. Is it that time of year already. I didn’t even realise til late Sunday that good ol’ NaPoWriMo had started the day before. Was I really gonna do this again. I haven’t been on Facebook much so I didn’t get any reminders from fellow poets who are attempting it this year. Are any? Luckily I’d jotted down a couple of draft pomes (I try & generate something every day & hopefully over a month, I get a couple of ideas worth developing). This was the least bad of those.
developments in irony
when we seem more interested in seeding
new subdivisions over the hills & plains
where once fruit trees turned heat
into sweetness & wheat rippled gold
where before that kangaroos & goannas
grazed — when we’d rather plant hardware
megastores & concrete commerce
cathedrals , cheek-by-bowel McMansions
in plots tarted up with wispy poetic
organic-sounding names : This-&-That
View, HoHum Gardens or SomeOrOther’s
Farm ; mockingly named for the agriculture
ploughed under to birth it — clearly a well
developed sense of irony plays a big part
in the selection criteria for local councilors
responsible for christening these cancers
& equally obvious we no longer wish
to produce enough food to feed ourselves
Prompt 22. Choose a title from the five offered. Write a poem. I have. & it may be the best poem of my career. Either that or I am incredibly tired. But let’s go with the former.
Möbius’ Strip
she sure wasn’t
the greatest dancer
in the world
or even the club
but she had this
amazing way
of bending minds
so you never knew
if she was taking clothes off
or putting them back on
Just finished the 12th poem. In the first 15 minutes. Which equals a glorious 45 minutes off. Perhaps I’ll nap.
A quick read over the night’s offerings reveals the verdict:
2 which are excellent & i’m very pleased with
4, that are better than
5, that are solid
& 1 that was always only ever intended as a joke
So all in all, i’m reasonably happy. How they’ll read after I’ve wiped off this sleep debt is anyone’s guess, but only my business.
Restward ho!
The task was write a Pantoum (a poem with a set rhyming pattern, as you will see). In a way I kind of cheated because some of us Marathoners were chatting in our facebook group about what snacks we had laid in for the next X hours & I mentioned I’d just opened some Lolly Gobble Bliss Bombs. On overseas poet didn’t know what they were, so I described them thus: “caramel & nut coated popcorn made by blissed out angels on permanent sugar highs 😂 ” … 10 minutes later we received the prompt – write a pantoum … & so gobble was born.
gobble
love my lolly gobble bliss bombs
nut & caramel coated popcorn
made by choirs of tripped out angels
singing love songs to sugar highs
nut & caramel coated popcorn
makes my brain oh so slightly dizzy
singing love songs to sugar highs
with my fingers all licky sticky
yes my brain oh so slightly dizzy
loves my lolly gobble bliss bombs
with fingers all licky sticky
tongued by choirs of trippy angels
Well, the first poem of (hopefully) 24 has been posted. I have 5 minutes before I need to start the next one.
Last year I had a theme & I posted every poem both here on my blog & again on the official Poetry Marathon page.
This year I am going to respond to the official poetry prompts & see where that takes me. I’m also not going to post every poem here for two reasons.
I might occasionally during the mara, if I think any poem has sufficient charm, post a few here to share. But I need to stop waffling the next prompt is due any second & Poem 2 needs to get started …
A little over 12 months ago, Adelaide Poet & real life marathoner, Mike Hopkins posted a link on facebook about this thing run out of the States — the “24 Hour Poetry Marathon”.
Last year I was very organised, tidied my desk up, bought plenty of food, precooked some meals, shaved, napped during the day, & was, as prepared as I could be (or so I thought) to try writing 24 poems in 24 hours.
Well in around 11 hours I’ll be trying it all again. Except this time, the desk’s a mess, no food is prepared (or even really in the house), I’m about to go out to a potentially boozy bbq, followed by a game of football for a team I don’t really barrack for & I have no plan & NFI.
I wonder which year will prove the most successful 🙂
A quick little birthday present poem for a young man I tutor/am mates with.
*****
May the Fourth Be With You
i have a friend
proud to be
born today
while the light
might be nice
i always say
better to be
more like me
& born tomorrow
— then you can
celebrate the Revenge
of the Fifth
*****
Last night, dear friend & wonderful poet, Louise Nicholas, launched her first, very beautiful, full-length collection of poems, The List of Last Remaining through 5 Islands Press. It was a fabulous warm funny (mildly drunken) night.
Today, after dipping my way in & out of the collection, I have taken the last line of her poem, “How to scale a fish” & tweaked it to use as the title of today’s poem.
moonlight, unearthed
& so it’s come : to that time : of life : to once again : take out the tools of excavation : to dust off : my brooms & tiny brushes : sharpen my trowels : put pads on my ageing knees : & get down in the pit : in the dirt : dig down through the layers : the strata of my happiness : & my grief : to uncover the bones : & broken pottery : & terracotta floors : of true love : lost : of childhood : lost : of embryos : washed down drains : blood on thighs, over tiles, over everything : & to keep digging : until all that’s left to see : is an empty grave : a soul shaped hole : a silver wash : of moon : light : & salt
Last line: “as if unearthed in moonlight”
Watched the 2010 episode of Doctor Who “Vincent and the Doctor”. A strange episode, with a monster that doesn’t really work — but such a lovely character piece that you overlook that (or I did anyway).
It ends with a sentimental, though for me, still deeply moving scene, where a lonely misunderstood Van Gogh (who sold only one painting in his life) is whizzed through time by Amy & the Doctor to the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, to see an exhibition of his work & hear a beautiful (if slightly mawkish, so what!) speech by Art Historian disguised as Bill Nighy on his place in the history of art.
sensing sadness
who would not : given the chance : like to be whisked : jimmy stewart : wonderful life style : into your future : to see that : your love of strong sunlight : your thick brush strokes : your colour : your colour : your colour : your ability to transform : torment : your understanding : of ecstasy : the swirling double life : of your stars : your need to create : something greater : than yourself : was a masterpiece : despite : your doubts : despite you : not knowing : the sadness : actually : won’t last : forever
gareth roi poet boi 