Yesterday’s poem was hard work to get my head around & then to hone back, once I was inside it. I’ve written a couple of poems today, all of them short & ‘simple’. This is a nice capture of a thought I often have.
*****
painting silence
on those truly cold days
when i can see right
through myself
stare at the bare part
where my heart
should be
finally comprehending
what dying alone
will mean
as opposed to
making it
— a joke
*****
I am reading Rebecca for the first time after it being on my wishlist for … well, ages, & while I am loving it (& subsequently in that strange frisson between ‘why didn’t you do this years ago’ & ‘perhaps it’s exactly the right time to do it now’) I cannot help but think about the artificiality of autobiographical writing of any kind. Particularly after many years have passed. Hence:
*****
the past is its own perfume
i don’t believe memoirs ;
cannot trust that upright
uptight autobiographical
‘I’
lives as lies ;
lies as narrative ;
narrativlies ;
they’re all a fiction subset ;
diaries a sanctioned form
of lying ; journals a justifying
conversation with who
we want to believe we are
my scepticism stems
from my limited recall
where i no longer recognise
if some of the wonderful
seconds of my own innocuous
history happened as i believe ;
or whether years of retelling
has altered the original impulse
beyond recognition ;
i trust baser instincts ;
scent which can roar us
back to who we were
faster than einstein’s ride
but so rarely are key moments
accompanied by unique smells ;
even music, that effortless
time travel machine
risks carbuncles calcifying
accreting, cumulating
till the detritus of decades
is attached & the original
pulse ; long lost ; gone ;
memory ; is smoke
NB I’m not entirely sure it’s finished, or whether it’s missing something, or what … but running out of time & mental acuity. Thoughts & feedback particularly welcomed on this one. (BTW thanks Sarah for the editing advice – suggesting cutting 4 words – or more accurately one word, 4 times, either way, big improvement)
*****
A friend showed me a draft of her poem entitled ‘insomnia’. So the word was in my head. Mine is a very different beast (as indeed no doubt are the things which keep us from our slumber). I didn’t intend writing it, but when the images of the ‘same sweet ghosts’ arrived & hung around, as it were, my path was trod.
*****
insomnia
well past the witching hour —
cold air — crackles the dogsnores
— magnifies the pastacrunching
mouse in a kitchen cupboard —
(who last night i tried to catch
obviously without success) —
chills the toes on my right foot
— it’s always colder than the left
even under the doona — no idea why
— must resist sleep at all costs —
& all the while — the same
sweet ghosts that usually haunt
these long alonely hours of
pretending i don’t wish to dream
float above our heads — trying
to interest me in a game of
— remember this ? —
*****
Another topic crossed off the list. Third of the way through, really feel like I’m smashing this NaPoWriMo. (Car crash to follow soon…)
After seeing 100’s of these little critters over the farm all summer, I’ve finally been able to give them a poetic shout out.
*****
6 short poems about Myrmecia forficata
(inch ants)
1. The Scientific
100, 000, 000 years
of evolutionary simplicity
single chromosome pair
lowest count of any creature
cousin to bees & wasps
— endemic to Australia
2. The Philosophic
furious will to live
— as proven by sadistic
philosophers who cut
them in two in order
to activate individual
head v tail fight clubs
3. The Metaphoric
with its blown glass abdomen
it’s a brown bloodred pin
on steroids ; a segmented
chitin tank ; shiny obsidian
suit of armour ; a spinning
exoskeleton compass — complete
with scissors & a ringmaster’s moustache
4. The Literal
technically should
be called 25.4mm ants
owing to our metrication
— but it doesn’t have
the same zing to it
5. The Unusual
their well-developed vision
means they can follow
intruders from a metre off
— try hiking in the bush
knowing inch ants
could be stalking you
6. The Personal
pincers pinch the skin
worse than when
your sister caught
a piece of your cheek
between her strong nails
during a childhood brawl
it was long ago that fight
& though you’ve forgotten
what it was about
you can still feel
that slapsting as sharp
as yesterday
— the inch ant bite
is worse than that
*****
If only we were able to make all our decisions based on hindsight …
*****
change
i can change
i can change
i can change
the desperate lover’s litany
when they finally
realise
& all the things
they’ve been
promising
but haven’t
have built up
to the point of
too late
this really is
the end
we probably can
even if it’s usually
years too late
*****
A toast to one of my favourite substances. Been wanting to write a poem about this elixir for a very long time. What came out, wasn’t quite what I expected … but I kinda like it …
NB – I thought I’d uploaded this last night, but I was very tired & clearly I only saved it. Ooops. (Sarah saw it yesterday so she can verify it was written then 🙂 )
*****
uisce beatha : water of life
drinking you is:
sword swallowing
while swinging
from a trapeze
crashing a spaceship
into the sun
to save humanity
from … something
dancing on
the volcano’s lip
as the fire below
becomes the fire
sliding inside
your baptismal juice:
has restored my life
numerous times
drowning despair
in your amber fire
before hope somehow
phoenixes out soggy
& with a sore head
but ready to go on
give me:
an eternal well
of your water
& i shall always
believe
*****
I get how hard it is to stay connected. But seriously, you could try a fraction harder.
*****
Coulomb’s law
you have a habit
of disappearing
into the ether
like an electron
sloughed off
an atom
every time our bonds
loosen it takes
effort to reconnect
& every time i wonder
is the attraction
strong enough
*****
Now that Easter is out of the way, I can return to the worklist. While having an outlet for exploring one’s grief is healing; it is very liberating to have other topics to dive into.
*****
what’ve you been doing with yourself…
… i find i’m often being asked
how to answer without offending
i read i write i think i live
walk the dog avoid paying bills
eat bad food drink better wine
daydream am as happy as i can be
if i was smarter & could think deeper
thoughts i might be a philosopher
(despite being equally poorly paid)
lose myself thinking about simple things
the stars light time bees mist
rain loss loneliness the nature
of goodness paths taken & not
being buzzed storms souls if angels
exist & if they do what they do
& why whether justice can ever
come if everything just is the passing
of the small utopias dystopias ways
of killing the rich … to feed the poor
*****
NB without wishing to sound too much like a first world whinger, I look forward to getting back to the city with fast non-satellite broadband & a non-old computer that doesn’t freeze &/or crash 4 times in the last 45 minutes.
Last one. Today is D-Day.
*****
the five
we were never a five – not properly – not all
together – not ever – yet in my head – we always
were – still are – forever will be – nothing can change
that – even though everything has changed — every thing
except the great empty
.
*****
Some things, you never quite get over.
You think you have, but you remain haunted.
*****
bad friday
all week it’s been hiding
round the corner
of my tiptoeing mind
& behind the walls
of my fragile carefully fabricated
homeshell every day
building like a thunderstorm
of bricks & grey anvils
ready to rain hell
every year grief floats between
the dark bloody day of the tomb
& the numerical reality
only once in 25 years (2001)
have the anniversaries coincided
even so my sadness was not halved
the next won’t be till 2063
so i’ll split my weeping over
two different dates for years
is it any wonder
on days like these i spend all night
sleeping on top of myself
*****
gareth roi poet boi 