Spent a large chunk of my writing time today trying to craft a pome comparing & contrasting the fire at Notre Dame with the fire in our climate. While many parts worked, a few did not & I realised longer would be needed to resolve the kinks.
However, while researching the idea I came across another, far less known story, which led to this …
in less widely covered news, the revered
al-asqa mosque in east jerusalem
was also struck by (a far less dramatic)
blaze at the same time as notre dame’s
inferno in france — damaging solomon’s
stables beneath a corner of temple mount
here’s a thought:
perhaps god is trying to tell us something
BONUS POEM: April 16, 2018
The theme persists.
stone is worn
it rains hard
the sun shines
& pretty soon
Today is always a day of conflicting emotions for me. Been trying to resolve my attitude towards it for 25 years. This is one of the pomes that came out after percolating about it all day. I’m happy enough with it. Hope my googleTranslate French is accurate.
Voix parmi les vaches
All I’ve heard for a long time now
is French farmers calling their cows.
It’s a musical enough language
& everything sounds more beautiful;
but I do miss the Aussie drawl
And the sky over this western front
Is no where near as big as
the west where I was once from.
The sun has gone down.
All my comrades have grown
old, gone beyond. Joined me,
in their way. So let us sleep.
We are grateful for your thoughts
but our graves no longer want
or need your remembrances.
You offer us a minute of silence.
Let’s try it for a century,
see if we can let it all just, settle.
NB Very hitech technicalised tech issues meant I was unable to post yesterday’s NaPoWriMo post as intended. About quarter to twelve with the image chosen, the bulk of the text typed into this blog & most of the miscellaneous tags & faff taken care of, I was suddenly unable to type anymore: turns out the rechargeable batteries in my wireless keyboard had gone flat & being the organised soul I am, I had neglected to backup charge any for, oh some weeks…
The story of this poem tells itself within the poem. Makes life easier.
one of my favourite travel stories
concerns a photograph of holy water
taken after my european sojourn
framed with precise pre-digital care
a vivid purple, a pool of venal blood
the top dam at twilight, my first night back
when showing it, i told my parents it was
a lake in france — for 3 days they believed
until i caught dad looking closely
it’s not really france is it?
no, i admitted, it’s your own country
the heart of everything