Enheduanna's Daughter

Song to Creation – Land   by Lloyd Rees I used to own a large print of this painting, a very good quality print, bought for I think $70 – back when $70 meant something, I guess five decades ago. We had it  framed beautifully, in slim white wood  with pale blue barely-there striations (matching, you see,   the work; unobtrusively, not detracting). I loved seeing it just inside our front door, looking as if it was catching the light –   the light that was in the painting, shining   not on it but from it. It told me of so many Tasmanian summers – though it could be up around Sydney. Anyway, the critics agree it might be almost anywhere in Australia.   It could never be anywhere but Australia. It’s the quality of our light. ‘A suffused glow’ reviewers point out, ‘shadeless … evenly lit …   and an open sky.’ As if we here need telling. It’s the light of joy, the air of the carefree, the memory of idyllic childhoods where   always we play in water, be it river or beach. I dare say our kids w

  The Conversation (Concerning a certain death) W hen necessary I have enormous patience. A s when I waited years for one to be free to meet me I knew would tell me truthfully all the details. T hat night, when finally — we had to get drunk. I n vino veritas , but it wasn’t that. We knew:   N o bearing it otherwise, that diving naked into G rief’s most terrible depths. We knew also we must. The Poetic Asides prompt #17 in the April Poem A Day challenge (2021) is to write about waiting. Knowing my subject matter but not how to tackle it, I tried an acrostic. I like the way it turned out to be about the immediate situation, with no real background. Sharing with W riters' Pantry #66 at Poets and Storytellers United: A Bat and a Haiku Walk into a Bar.

  Cities I Have Loved Denpasar four decades ago, strolling in the night markets. Families of all generations   out together on a warm evening.   Before bombs, hard drugs … and synthetic sarongs for the stupid tourists, printed one side only. Busy, friendly Kathmandu under the shining white peaks. Streets of shapely, ancient buildings: Hindu, Buddhist and Bon. Before the family, remote   in that tiny, pretty palace   was slaughtered by a mad son; before   Communists, or the worst earthquake. Edinburgh with the looming crag, welcoming castle, water views, and the small card shop on the Golden Mile   with every known variety of Tarot. Before the visible poverty   overcrowding the streets, the slums and degradation described to me since my time. Venice with its colour, its joy, its bountiful water and thin lanes, the masks in every shop window and the art, the art, the art! Before the cruise ships, the floods,   the water-damaged buildings;   even before  the (other) ubiquitous, proliferat

  My Happy Ever After Story Once upon a time – all the long time until my fifty-third year   and his sixty-third,   and of course after all our other loves before – we found each other. He was handsome, naturally, my prince – short, white-haired (a good head of hair) with a bit of a tummy ... such a pretty face, eyes   faded but still blue. And he was funny and smart, loved books – didn’t know a thing about poetry (I took him to a live performance   and blew his mind) – and our politics agreed. He was sometimes abrupt, always gentle, an idealist who could be helplessly moved to tears by heroism, or his own overflowing love. Often he spoke quiet wisdom. And so we married: his second time, my third. And lived happily ever after for the next twenty years. (You know, despite stubborn clashes, etc.) Learning to be alone took a few years more but now, in a life rich with memories, in a home we shared, full of his loving presence, I’m still happy. Ever after. Poetic Asides prompt for April Po

  The Immediate Surroundings Above my computer   is a shelf and above that a section of wall. There are pictures and objects — all, now that I think of it, unusual, even esoteric — only I am so used to them I regard them as normal. Doesn’t everyone have images of deities (Egyptian, Celtic, Greek) and bowls of offerings (feathers, stones ...) as well as huge crystals, clown figurines, and animal   and bird pictures channeled   by a spiritual artist friend? To my right as I sit working is a big window onto greenery, and dangling in it yet another clown, a big one, on a swing. I just like clowns, OK? I never thought them sinister. I like them Carnivale: beautiful, sad, star- crossed lovers. (Aren’t we all.) Lately something else,   something new, wanders into my space, asserting ownership — not only of desk but me. My new cat, Poppi,   is a cuddle-puss, a love junkie. She climbs gently but firmly to lie, purring, across my heart. The Poetic Asides Poem A Day prompt for April 14  is to wri

  Sevenling: Being Born a Poet Being born a poet gives you purpose in all situations. It needs so little equipment you can do it anywhere,  can give a poem away and keep it at the same time. On the other hand, you won’t get rich in worldly ways, most folk would rather watch football than read you, and your lovers will demand odes – or worse, won’t. Such luck, being born a poet! And such a sorry fate. The Poetic Asides April prompt #13 is to write a lucky and/or unlucky poem.