Thank god this month is over. Today was another exhausting (yet rewarding) experience. Another short film made. Well — shot, at least; editing still to come.
I’ve been planning this poem for a couple of weeks now, so it was quick & easy to record as variations of it have been roiling though my mind ever since I conceived of it as a fairly neat way to wrap up & round out this month.
Today was a tough day. Long tiring. I have at least a dozen titles/ideas for love poems about my most recent experience of same that I thought I might write this month that I never got around to. Titles I jotted down included: fairy tale love, five answers to the same question, how we got to this point: part 1, invested, MSG, questions i now know i’ll never ask, reconnection, rid, soul mates, tainted, the moment of hindsight, the spare, to those who wait among others. I guess some of those might get written one day. Just not today. Nor tomorrow neither.
Other topics I consider were: love of books, love of planet, love of land & billionaires — their love of money versus their non-love of humanity. All of which might well have produced some interesting explorations. Yet the one I went with came to me quite quickly through the flittering eyelids of halfsleep.
*****
from a foreign field
end of an exhausting day : babblebox on in background : company as i chairdoze : when my fave Escape begins : & i am reenergised
whether it be — golden farmland : mist-ridden valleys : lumpy mountains : windswept seas : hemlike hedgerows : aching lakes : weeping brooks : ancient sprites : wildflower fields : one hundred types of rain : or chocbox houses : in tiny hamlets : with absurdly wonderful : gobstopping names
no matter which area — Cornwall : Cotswolds : Cumbria — Devon : the Downs : Lake District — Shropshire : Warwickshire : the Shire — New Forest : Sherwood Forest — the moors : the fenlands : the locations list nearly endless
cannot help myself : though often wish i could : feel inexplicably torn : that some small part : of my traitorous soul : is & always will be : for ever England
A more playful poem than some this month, because after all, I do still have my sense of humour.
*****
deep cleansing the past month
week 1: a necessary exorcise of Her
my friend Charlotte convinced that to provide clarity & clear the psychic air around me i must exorcise Her negative energy from my home head & heart
together we assemble two strands of black hair & one of henna; a handwritten letter; & the sole gift i ever got (a clue in itself she whispers) a copy of Her favourite book
i must burn them at midnight of a new moon ie tonight i’m tired i tell her & it’s cold out she’s long gone when i sacrifice Her meagre possessions to flame
— it makes no difference
.
week 2: Spell for Aura and Energy Flow
disappointed but not deterred Charlotte has lent me her White Spells for Modern Wiccans with multiple pages marked
turning to the first post-it note her neat handwriting declares: this spell is perfect for purifying one’s aura or the energy flow between two people
things i need
bundle dry sage “loaded” white candle a feather (purified) photo of each of us
having none of these items Charlotte swiftly visits & watches as i perform the spell under her steely gaze
i. put candle & sage on a silver platter with the two photos
ii. light candle burn sage carefully creating smokeless smoke
iii. with the feather sweep smoke towards the outside of the house
— it makes no difference
.
week 3: Enchantment to ward negative energy from the home
on a waning moon day peel & quarter an onion form in a cross on a white plate in front of a brown candle light the candle, chanting
Creature of fire Bringer of tears Hear my desire Banish my fears
Power of three Set this home free Cleanse it today Long may it stay
travelling counterclockwise walk through the house
saucer in left hand, candle in right turn three times clockwise in every room
leave the onion & candle in the kitchen until it’s completely burnt down
then throw the wax on your lawn & bury the onion far from home
— it makes no difference
.
week 4: spell of my own devising
go into the garden pluck five sprigs of fresh mint return inside heat some water (from the tap is fine)
tear the leaves from the stalks & drop in a mug pour hot water over breathe in deeply
pop your patio chair in a patch of warm autumn sunshine but take a rug too cos there are clouds above
sigh loudly after sipping open the given book (course i didn’t burn it i’m no monster) lose yourself in reading
— it doesn’t fix everything but it makes a small difference
This was written yesterday after a long day. First my regular Wednesday shift. Then working on a member of Film Club’s short film script for 2 hours in the afternoon, then 2 hours mentoring a local poet on a dozen poems from a collection she’s trying to work up into submission quality for chapbook-style competitions.
After writing it, I said I’ll just lie on my bed for a second to rest before I come back to set it up/post it on my website. Bwahahahaa. FLW. Of course I was asleep. Before 9pm for goodness sake. When I woke again at 1am I made the executive decision that it could wait till I upload tomorrow’s poem.
*****
how i spent my last day with you
spent all morning watching that door waiting for you to descend those stairs cavort over here & tell me that somehow despite all the odds you do, yes indeed, do in fact love me
I wrote this (well the first draft of it) dictating it into my phone as I lay in bed about 3am this morning, unable to sleep. I was just trying to record some ideas that have been roiling round in me for much of the past fortnight (possibly longer). Sure, I’ll be glad when April is over, but I gotta say it’s been hella good therapy.
When I looked at it again around 7am, I realised it made a dreamy kind of poetic sense so instead of ripping phrases out & assembling them, I thought I’d try a different poetic technique & go with the flow. This consisted mainly of tidying up the times I had to repeat myself cos it didn’t understand what I was saying & deciphering some of the VRS’s quirkier interpretations. Adding a phrase or two here & there, but really very little.
When I read it again at 11pm in preparation to post it, I cried. (But then I always have been a bit of a sook!)
*****
dream of consciousness
we spoke with such softness and hope … of a life we might live together … we felt like everything was coming together the way it was meant … the way it should’ve done years ago … years and years ago … where all those missed opportunities finally reached fruition … like flowers being born … after long years in dry ground … waiting for the rains … of being fully awake … fully alive … at last … we discussed living together … we discussed weddings … we discussed babies … we discussed beliefs … talk of souls and eternities … re-discussed lives together … loves together … lives passed … lives present … we really did wonder if we’d known each other before … been together before … as if some web connected us through time … and space … the dark matter mattered … and for a few months it felt like everything we did … tapped into that magic stream … we appreciated everything … it was all wondrous and wonder full … the connection … the constant need to be in contact … the thousands and thousands of text messages … over 7000 last time you counted … sure about 6500 were from me to you … but still … along with hundreds of photos and videos … little snippets of where we were … what we were doing … random thoughts … random things … tiny silly things … things that made us smile … made us happy … things we thought we’d do together one-day … road trips that we go on … places we’d visit … things we’d write … plays we’d be remembered for … play time
the hardest thing is … you took away the fear in my heart … filled it with joy and laughter and hope … and now going back to what it was … is worse than it never filling in the first place … but I think I get it … seems now you only were ever half-present half-engaged half-involved half-accepting half-believing half-wanting … half of where I was … I know that’s a lot of halves
you say you don’t believe in fairytales … that life isn’t a fairytale … but it could’ve been … and more … could’ve been better than that … we had all the ingredients … we had the potential the promise the prospect … the energy of fire … the connection (again with that word) … the buzz … the celestial bees buzzed right through us … through me anyhow … when I’m brave enough … to look back through some of the photos … or god forbid … read some of the messages … we sent to each other … I still can’t understand why … why you didn’t want this
For once, I don’t feel conflicted about writing an Anzac Day Poem. And as happened 2 days ago with Bill Shakey Day, (& last year for both days) having a superimposed theme (“love” this year, “climate change” last) made me look at the day in a whole new way — which in turn has generated not 1, not 2, but 3 poems of which I am exceedingly pleased.
Looking at love in war time is a wonderful way to get around the whole uncertainty I have about A25.
It’s also a lovely way (pun intended) to honour, commemorate, call what you will my grandparents in poetical form.
*****
Anzac Triptych 1. Atherton Tablelands 2. Goodbye Will Moon 3. TIL
*
1. Atherton Tablelands
In April 1943 following three weeks leave after seeing action at Tobruk, Mersa Matruh and El AlameinGunner RL JONES of the 2/7th Field Regiment arrived at Kairi in the Atherton Tablelands.
It was love at first sight.
Even though he was from a notoriously lush part of the Adelaide hills the green in Far North Queensland is several degrees greater than most mortal eyes are used to — or able to endure.
Gunner RL Jones remained on the Tablelands with his unit for almost two years — training and playing upon the rich red loam born in ancient volcanoes. Before being sent to Tarrakan that began the Allies’ Borneo Campaign. He survived those jungles by thinking often of the equally lush Atherton tablelands — until the Americans blew up the world and the war ended.
Gunner RL Jones eventually made his way home & made Florence his fiancé.
Rueben told Florence. Of the green. Of the red soil. Of his desire to move there.
Florence said no.
He never saw the Tablelands again
*
2. Goodbye Will Moon
In late 1944 Corporal BI Burgan of RAAF 1 Squadron was likewise on leave when he visited his parents in Port Wakefield.
Quiet Sunday evening. Parents off praying. It’s been a long journey and I’ve only a few precious day’s leave. But I know dad will be disappointed if I don’t attend. So although I don’t feel like it reluctantly walk across town.
Only one seat remains in the very back pew. Slide into that space next to a beautiful young woman who smiles as I sit down. Can’t concentrate. On what the pastor is saying. Nor the service itself. Nothing but — that sublime smile.
Afterwards, I offer to walk her home and am bemused and delighted to discover she’s boarding with our next door neighbour.
We stand talking for ages til I brazenly lean in and kiss her over the garden gate. I’d best go in now, she says.
The best night of my life.
During my leave we spend as much time as possible together but it ends all too quickly. Before I deploy to New Guinea I must tell her. I confess undying love. The hammer blow. She’s engaged to another! I didn’t know I say and chivalrously offer to step aside.
Leave it with me. She says. I’ll deal with it.
And. She. Did.
*
3.
TIL
today i learnt that unlike my gran and grandad nana and papa weren’t engaged or even dating while he was away during the war they only started seeing each other after he got home
her first love died flying bombers over germany she was s h a t t e r e d when Will was killed
suddenly saw my frail ninety nine year old nana with newer sadder eyes
It was an excellent workshop … & here I’m going to quote some blurb: Form is an active part of a poem, not just an aesthetic, so the workshop will look at how different forms DO different things within a poem. Which indeed it did. We looked at multiple examples of different poems in different forms doing different things. We discussed what those things might be. We did numerous writing exercises which produced several pomes which we were nice starting points for later play.
But one exercise was particularly pertinent. Seeking to see if I could use the workshop to generate today’s NaPoWriMoPo Heather asked us to to consider something we were currently dealing with. I chose the unexpected end of a relationship (for those of seven of you who’ve been here all month this will come as no surprise, hahaha).
However in the interest of walking you through some of what we did, somewhat unusally, I’m going to present several versions of the poem (2 drafts and the current ‘final’ version).
Task: to write something super swiftly on the topic (3 minutes).
& so this. First version.
Draft #1.
[untitled]
Sorry you were not Brave enough to brace Yourself against the slow Flow of obstacles
Mud & stones & sticks Rumbling down the mountain Brought down by weeks Of rain & now the deluge
The sad landslide Has wrecked everything Washed away whatever We had tentatively built
Not sure I have the energy To commence the clean up Let alone attempt any kind Of reconstruction efforts
Curiously because this was late in the session I was already thinking about form & for some reason wrote it in quatrains which is not something I’d normally do. But quatrains certainly don’t suit this subject matter.
Aside: when I started the poem I wasn’t actually sure what it was going to be about. I only had the first few words of the first line “Sorry you were not/Brave enough…” When I wrote “brave” I immediately paired it with “brace” (why? they looked nice together) then I had to work out what she was bracing against. “slow/Flow” popped in … & that’s where the landslide imagery came in … & the rest wrote itself. [It’s interesting to keep track of what happens to those words/images through the poem; or I think it is anyway.]
Supplementary task: five minutes to reconsider it in terms of its form considering how altering form might enhance meaning. I couldn’t at first see what to do. Then:
Sorry you were not Brave enough to brace Yourself against the slow Flow of obstacles
But if I did that I’d rapidly run out of room. So I reduced it from 5 spaces to 1.
Giving me this:
Landslide/slip
Sorry you were not Brave enough to brace Yourself against the slow Flow of obstacles
Mud & stones & sticks Rumbling down the mountain Brought down by weeks Of rain & now the deluge
The sad landslide Has wrecked everything Washed away whatever We had tentatively built
Not sure I have the energy To commence the clean up Let alone attempt any kind Of reconstruction efforts
Which still didn’t look right. But maybe was kinda going somewhere. But anyway, formatting it on my iPhone was too hard & besides I was out of time.
Only when I got home could I play. & after attempting it all lined up on the right hand side of the page. Urrrgh. I ended up with this. Which while not perfect, I quite like.
slippage
so sorry you were not resolute enough to brace your soul to resist the detritus torrent mud & stones & sticks rumbling down the mount deluged by weeks of rain — now the sad landslide has wrecked everything washed away everything we’d tentatively built
not sure if i have the energy to commence clean up let alone attempt any kind of meaningful reconstruction
The theme behind today’s (belated posted, but written yesterday) poem is my lifelong love of Shakespeare. The original concept was to write a sonnet (ie the form he used to create some of the most famous love poems in the language); but that quickly slipped into something else. As preparation I reread (though I really don’t need much of an excuse) Bill Bryson’s slim but wonderful little volume on Shakespeare. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you do. It might also help you get a couple of the, well let’s call them jokes, within the poem. Hahahaha.
little love song
not knowing why : bought a book : Christmas 84 : Campbell’s newsagency : Elizabeth Shopping Centre : remainders table : cheap large format : paperback : paper so cheap : can’t stress : how how cheap : navy blue cover : with a terrible reproduction : of the terrible Droeshout engraving : every play laid out : in tiny font : four columns wide : the sonnets : & long poems : across the bottom quarter : of every page : bland introduction : courtesy : Dennis Allen : M.A. (Oxon) : B.A. (Lond)
read every play : that summer : though the poems : (ironically) : didn’t : do much : probably wouldn’t : couldn’t : today : even with : binocular assistance : oh for the eyes : of youth : loved the wild plots : the stories : the eccentric characters : the humour : loved the language : both the archaic nature : & the richness : so much colour : how he could do : so much : with so few : no doubt didn’t : understand everything : no footnotes in Allen’s : tome : but got enough : to form a lifelong : love
today : love the fact : he annoys so many : conspiracy theorist : nutjobs : Looney : Battey : silly men : who can’t cope : with the idea : (theirs) : of a provincial : country bumpkin : being so talented : profound : influential : the so-called : Shakespeare authorship question : twists : certain men’s knickers : into such knots : they resort to : anagrams : cryptograms : & candidates who died : even as : new plays were : being performed : (solution : they pre-wrote : a wad of plays : prior to death) : was never a question : in his day : nor for : 200 years : the reality : most scholars : laugh : at the ludicrous claims : as : they : should
Would drive 1250 miles just to fall down * Would cut my hair boring businessman short Would keep losing weight till I was wafer thin Would work whatever godawful job necessary Would bid farewell to family & friends Would sell all my books (well most) Would even give away the dog
If you loved me I would move here between the mountains & the rain Would swap my edge of desert bleak heat dry grass existence For your tropical paradise rednecked cultural desert & assault of green Would learn to be happy here Would start again
If you loved me I would do these things For you
If …
.
* admittedly I’m not walking as far as The Proclaimer’s boasted they would, but the climactic conditions of Scotland & Australia are very different — though I would be going 250 miles further than they promised if that’s any consolation
.
The Spartan connection Philip II of Macedon had conquered almost every Greek city-state barring Sparta. He sent a message: “If I invade Lakonia you will be destroyed, never to rise again.” The Spartans reply? “If.”
when my parents retire dad wants to live in darwin mum in cradle mountain mum says they’ll meet for a month in the middle (in our country’s so-called dead heart) every five or so years & it’ll be the perfect relationship, lol
gareth roi poet boi 