Playing with a word I learnt last year and thought might make a good poem title (& hopefully poem).
The homesickness you have when you are still at home.
word & definition coined by Glenn Albrecht Australian philosopher & Professor of Sustainability
that peculiar form of distress that envelopes us in a misty kind of claustrophobic cling wrap when we see our homelands both lived & idealised lands which bring peace simply by being give us tranquility remind us to breath to hope to sit quietly & still & just
when we feel those lands callously destroyed paddocks ploughed under for another subdivision megahardware store or discount supermarket or cut open for coal or fracked set on fire covered in oil torn up by trucks
Came across the phrase “brother to dragons, and companion to owls” a couple of times in the past week (once as the title of a book I recently bought & was about to put on its new home: instead it’s now on the TBR pile) & wondered what it meant. So I did a wee search & located where the phrase came from … & though this didn’t help me understand what it means, it did inspire me to do a reimagining of the text around it into a semi-satisfying pome. It also feels slightly synchronicitous given we are 1/3 of the way through the final season of Game of Thrones.
Note: Although I played some games with it, I was more interested in creating a new thing which worked than maintaining the meaning of the source material.
Game of Moans
a harp mourns, my flute only weeps.
skin peels & baleful bones burn.
mourn, but not beneath the sun
speak in assemblies, seeking help
constant churning, cannot rest;
days of affliction confront me.
hoped for good, only evil came;
looked for light, howling darkness fell.
wept the troubled, soulgrieved the needy
— yet none stretch a hand to my ruin
when I plea for help in my distress. . .
BONUS POEM: April 26, 2018
A pome about 2 sorts of home, written far away from both.
Our old rollie-smoking Barossadeutsch neighbour once told me, jokingly I suspect,
surrounded by sweet-smelling
wisps, about his favourite axe.
What a good axe it was.
How it’d been his since boyhood; & he’d only
replaced 4 handles & 2 heads in 60 years.
O wonderful, incomparable eternal axe of his youth. They don’t make em like that anymore.
Feel like that ageless
axe — always waiting for my head replacement to continue being
the same old new me of my youth