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
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
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 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
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.
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.
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
..
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
case study #7
she makes peace with past tears ;
ignores the radio’s roster of sad songs
background faint which seek to suck
her into sinkholes she’s spent years
climbing out of ; sliding back in
– a triumph just buying milk
he prepares a packet-free meal ;
washes a load sans tissue-in-pocket ;
actually eats the watermelon before
it emulsifies in its clingwrap shroud
– little victories by most parameters
but he’ll take them ; gladly
& so we assemble our fragments
Last night, dear friend & wonderful poet, Louise Nicholas, launched her first, very beautiful, full-length collection of poems, The List of Last Remaining through 5 Islands Press. It was a fabulous warm funny (mildly drunken) night.
Today, after dipping my way in & out of the collection, I have taken the last line of her poem, “How to scale a fish” & tweaked it to use as the title of today’s poem.
moonlight, unearthed
& so it’s come : to that time : of life : to once again : take out the tools of excavation : to dust off : my brooms & tiny brushes : sharpen my trowels : put pads on my ageing knees : & get down in the pit : in the dirt : dig down through the layers : the strata of my happiness : & my grief : to uncover the bones : & broken pottery : & terracotta floors : of true love : lost : of childhood : lost : of embryos : washed down drains : blood on thighs, over tiles, over everything : & to keep digging : until all that’s left to see : is an empty grave : a soul shaped hole : a silver wash : of moon : light : & salt
Last line: “as if unearthed in moonlight”
Watched the 2010 episode of Doctor Who “Vincent and the Doctor”. A strange episode, with a monster that doesn’t really work — but such a lovely character piece that you overlook that (or I did anyway).
It ends with a sentimental, though for me, still deeply moving scene, where a lonely misunderstood Van Gogh (who sold only one painting in his life) is whizzed through time by Amy & the Doctor to the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, to see an exhibition of his work & hear a beautiful (if slightly mawkish, so what!) speech by Art Historian disguised as Bill Nighy on his place in the history of art.
sensing sadness
who would not : given the chance : like to be whisked : jimmy stewart : wonderful life style : into your future : to see that : your love of strong sunlight : your thick brush strokes : your colour : your colour : your colour : your ability to transform : torment : your understanding : of ecstasy : the swirling double life : of your stars : your need to create : something greater : than yourself : was a masterpiece : despite : your doubts : despite you : not knowing : the sadness : actually : won’t last : forever
gareth roi poet boi 