Day 28 – white magick cleansing 

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 

Day 27 — 2 weeks ago today

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 

promise myself
i’ll go inside 
in a bit

after this shower passes
perhaps 

then inside 

it’ll be dark soon

Day 19 — you say you don’t like sweet things

A quick & tasty poem after a long first day back at work after my sick weekend. (It’s one thing to flesh up a poem over the course of several hours, then tweak polish & post it before climbing back into bed — it’s another thing altogether to craft one late at night after working two long shifts.) Despite that, I’m pleased with this one too.


cocos vox

if voices 
were biscuits 
yours would be

freshly-baked
Monte Carlos
with homemade
raspberry jam
& cream centres
if we’ve spoken
that day

— but more like
my grandmother’s
special recipe dark
chocolate biscuits 
dipped in even 
darker chocolate 
with mint on top 

if i haven’t heard it
in too long a time

Day 18 — promises unkept

Pretty self-explanatory.

fireflies 

all the things 
we said we’d do

long slow trips round
oz’s wide open roads 

revisit our favourite corners
of hobbit-country : discover new ones

christmas in talinn
a cabin under the aurora

form our own theatre 
company crisscross our plays 

round the country
take on : the world 

tell more of our stories
to each other

perhaps possibly perchance
find peace

but i didn’t even get to see : the fireflies 
down the bottom of your back yard 

Day 17 — Day 2 of the Festival of Grief

Today really is symbolic of more than just one loss: it’s a conglomeration of three anniversaries in one. The other two (one in June, one in July) grieve me too — but as they do not fall within Glo/NaPoWriMo they don’t usually get poems written about them. (Though the days of the FoG aren’t the only times poems get written or thoughts get thought about this topic). 

Given this month’s theme is love I’ve decided to deliberately include all three griefs in one poem. On the plus side, there are a multiplicity of loves on display within the poem, so it works on many levels.

Today’s poem is paired with one I wrote 28 years ago. It is included as bonus: an Easter egg if you like, not that you have to look too hard to find it.

advice from a fish

although today
commemorates
the first loss

you’re in countless 
poems, plays, story ideas
all three of you

for endless sorrowfilled years 
i wore your rings
round my neck

till they got 
too heavy to endure
& i was told 

by the fish 
for my own sanity 
take them off 

you knew too well
without the self-flagellation
of my despair

*****

BONUS POEM:

3 silver rings

around her neck
she wears three silver rings
on a gold chain
   & crucifix
one, a rose
one, a gallic cross
& one, all stars & moons

one each
for every child
which never was

Day 20 — solastalgia

Playing with a word I learnt last year and thought might make a good poem title (& hopefully poem).

*****

solastalgia 

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

then
there is no solace

Day 15 — conceivably

Day 2 of the festival of grief.

conceivably 

in an ideal alternate universe : at least one of my unborn bairns
might by now have brought : their own bubbling babes 

into that mystic parallelium — so conceivably in that
painfully imagined utopia : i might even have grandkids

perhaps on that earth they started : acting decisively on climate change 
around the time my first born was : instead of stupidly kicking the can/

/i’m sorry : even in a dreamscape theoretical existence
i cannot conceive a humanity — which would have acted

Day 5 – in firing range

This is the poem I started writing yesterday till all the might have beens that never were muscled its way out into the world mid-draft. I’ve gone back to it today & finished it off.

in firing range

despite insane frustration with inept governments :
& debilitating rage at arrogant greedybloodhungry
multinational corps’ ruthless relentless unabashed 
pillaging of the planet : part of me knows — i
can’t really complain : for since that so long past :
never forgotten : sunday : i too have failed to meet targets

failed to reduce emissions (though reducing consumption 
would be more benefit) : failed in every known dataset
that supposedly counts : for something : in life : 
marriage : career : kids : success : legacy : wealth 
accumulation : financial security : et cetera : & : ad nauseum

for the longest time : failed to even notice
i’d been trapped in a tomb : since the first 
of those soulharrowing three days : over three
decades ago : the stone rolled back on me :
unaware : unable to escape my darkness

the difference i suppose is my failure :
has destroyed predominantly me :
(with deepest apologies to a handful
of beautiful people who were caught
in the crosshairs of my grief) : whereas
it is currently the world : being crucified 
now : & into the firing range : of the future

NB I'm really hating the new WordPress. It's repeatedly refusing to let me upload photos saying I'm not connected to the internet (even though I am & capable of opening other pages, watching youtube videos, etc. It's highly frustrating & causing the delays in posting.

Day 15 – sadness (always sadness today)

15 black_out_xiv___blue_candle.jpg

29 years today.

*****

home, less

the home is new
but sadness stays

my old heart yearns
for all the birthdays

that never came
.


.
BONUS POEM: April 15, 2018

Today. Every year.

*****

goldfish kisses

in the back of memory
monks monophone softly
as fish shivers pianoforte
glockenspielling my spine
these tingling goldfish kiss
past present & forever
into one molten lovechant
calcium dissolving moment
lift me up-in-to you
a been apart too long
old friend reminder

the sadness builds
I wait
           to come home

..
15b The Little House on the Mountain.jpg

Day 27 – poem about bad hair

g&g

Some days a poem just writes itself. This was one such. From a few notes jotted while I was visiting my gran in her “retirement home”, the tone quickly established itself & made me laugh out loud as the various descriptions presented themselves.

knot me

in the quiet blue of my gran’s tiny
room a photo of a long-haired kiss-
curled cow-licked feminine-faced lout;
smug in a purple-striped shirt under
neath an all-white knitted jumper
(as was, I hope, vaguely fashionable
in the Miami Vice trashed late 80’s);
set off with a heart-shaped silver bolo-
tie for fuck’s sake
                                 although i recognise
his confident cock-eyed grin, his too-
smooth clean-cut chin, & once-pride&joy
full-but-already-thinning head of fine
wavy hair, my stomach double knots
in grief & pity — for he does not yet
know all he has, nor all he will lose