Love, Eventually

Love, Eventually
















My black cat

with white whiskers

stares silently

eyes fixed

on my face:

the gaze of love

and trust.

Then she blinks

slowly, almost drowsily,

snuggling against my leg,

purring long.

A slight

and dainty cat,

she's ten.

When she came,

she was eight;

she stayed aloof, hiding

behind curtains,

claws ready....

One year before

purring; two to miaow.

But now –

we anchor and

orbit each other; 
true minds.

This poem is in a new form invented by a friend who wishes to remain private. She calls the form 'arch', in which the 4th stanza is – as she says – 'much like the keystone is for an arch, holding both sides together'. I'll be sharing this poem via Poets United's Poetry Pantry #434 in the New Year.

Details:

The poem is 7 stanzas long, with 69 words. Stanzas break down as follows:

1st stanza: 3 words/3 words/2 words

2nd stanza: 2 words/3 words/4 words/2 words

3rd stanza: 3 words/3 words/4 words/2 words

4th stanza: 2 words/3 words/2 words

5th stanza: 3 words/3 words/4 words/2 words

6th stanza: 2 words/3 words/4 words/2 words

7th stanza:: 3 words/3 words/2 words

A Lament for the ‘Tasmanian Tiger’

A Lament for the Tasmanian Tiger

Tiger, tiger, you didn’t burn bright

in the Launceston Museum when I was a child.

You looked pathetic: your pelt moth-eaten,

your colour dull, head down as if dejected.

You were stuffed and stiff, and you looked it,

although you were supposed to seem

alive and wild. Even my naive young eyes

could tell there was no spark left in you.

You were all gone even then, quite gone

so I was told, the whole lot of you –

three years before I was born. I almost 

didn’t just miss you being alive and wild.

I think, though, I'd not have encountered you

even then. You were a shy creature, nocturnal,

secretive, hiding in the bush, quick and slinky

to slide out of sight: a ghost, a shadow.

There were whispers. You weren’t extinct.

You’d been seen. On the mainland too, 

even recently, right near where I live now. 

The locals nod, and keep their counsel.

                          ************

I thought I saw you once, when I was still

a child back in Tassie – a flicker of movement

and a different colour, at the edge of a field,

fading back into the bush. So swift! Imagined?

You were bright then: not fire but light, 

stretched out, loping efficiently, a glimpse 

caught through deepening dusk; beautiful … 

vanishing into the wilderness as night began.

Written for Fireblossom Friday: Lament for the Thylacine at 'imaginary garden with real toads. The thylacine was widely known as the Tasmanian Tiger, though it is not related to tigers. It was a unique animal, a carnivorous marsupial.
Image: CC BY 2.O Wikimedia Commons

Sometimes Glad They Didn't Live

Sometimes Glad They Didn't Live

There was a time, after my second husband died –

to whom I was not married any more by then,

but to someone else, but still I hadn't wanted him dead

and it was a huge shock, and then to be dealing with

our sons' grief, their storms of sobbing ...

there was that time when Holland lost to Argentina

in the FIFA World Cup, after getting so far,

and I was glad he was dead, to miss that 

huge disappointment that it would have been for him

(Dutch till he was 15)....   Is that weird? Anyway I was.

And I caught myself feeling glad just now

that my dear third husband is not still alive to learn

that one of his favourite Aussie actors – the one we saw

walking along St Kilda Road after we'd been to the Art Gallery,

that last time we visited Melbourne together 

(we had sat to rest on the low concrete ledge

dividing pavement from Arts Centre precincts

near the bridge above South Bank, and there he was

coming towards us from the theatre complex. Yes, it was 

him! In the end, Andrew just called out, 'Good on you, mate!'

The tall man gave him a quick thumbs up,

a nod and a lopsided grin, as he strode past

heading for Flinders Street Station, or the tram stop, or

the Swanston Street shops ... wherever great people go

when they're being ordinary and just like the rest of us.) 

I'm glad, I say, that Andrew never heard the tales

of an Aussie icon revealed as predator. At first 

we didn't believe the one young woman; and other actors 

said they knew nothing of it – but now it begins to look true. 

If Andrew has to be dead, I'm glad he's spared this sad disillusion.


Sharing with the last Tuesday Platform for 2018 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Of Roots, Cut Grass ...

Of Roots, Cut Grass ...

On a high plain in Kashmir

surrounded by mountains,

in charge of a flock,

he wanders them here and there

across this changing plateau.

The days are hot, 

the nights are cold.

Moving through the old realms,

is one bell enough?

Who marches at the head?

Evening. Men 

who had promised 

craftsmanship 

sat, talked, refilled glasses,

looked out the window. 

He never speaks. 

The animals twitch with energy,

smell of death,

confront, adapt,

flow where they will.

Erasure poem, excerpted and rearranged from two short pieces of fiction: Hazel’s Haircut by Rob Swannock Fulton and Some Roots of Grass, author unknown.

Shared at Poets United's PoetryPantry #433

Slumbering Summer

Slumbering Summer

Red geraniums grow tall.

Their leaves, like hands,

tap softly against my window

~ in the somnolent mid-afternoon ~

when the sun gets warmer,

I start to drowse, and

my tall geraniums also nod.


A puente for 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

The Way Opened

The Way Opened

Below a pelt of thick, peaty soil

the smells of aromatic spices

mingle with oriental floral,

trees straining under the weight

of red and golden apples.

Nine mountains to the north, nine dragons

protect the island and vibrant harbour.
With the arrival of this thought
in the orange glow of the morning sun,

the departure of a hunger.

An erasure poem using lines from two pieces of fiction, The Chinese Way by Irene Tai and She Opened the Box by Rab Swannock Fulton, rearranged and intermingled.

Shared with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #432

So Long

So Long

So long now

since you jumped into death –

36 years, bright lad –

embracing the darkness

of the unknown,

rather than

the surrounding, encroaching

pain …

but my loyalty

is to your laughter,

your forthright gaze,

your arms around me briefly,

the words you inscribed on paper,

the flush on your freckled cheeks

and how resolutely

you straightened your shoulders

after that last time,

turning away.

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' Toni challenges us to write in the mood of Mono no Aware, the Japanese term for wistful sadness about loss or change. Well-timed for me, just as I've been having some nostalgic thoughts on the subject of this poem.

Just Do It

Just Do It

You just open

some sort of

inspace that connects

to the outspace

and both are

vast dark / light

from which, or

through, there pours

this thing, poetry,

made of words

you didn’t know

you knew how

to put together

and it’s true

you didn’t know:

oh vibrating instrument.

Kim, for the Weekend Mini Challenge at 'imaginary garden with real toads', invites us to write about 'just doing it'.

If You Forget Me

If You Forget Me

If you forget me, the Universe will come to a close.

It is not possible that you would forget me.

Through three lifetimes (and those only 

the ones we got in touch with) you did not forget me.

When you had Alzheimer’s, you still remembered me – 

though sometimes you got a bit muddled.

You knew always there was a Rosemary you loved.

You knew this woman with you as your dear wife.

Occasionally you didn’t connect them exactly, but

either way you loved me and never forgot me.

You are busy now, up there with the angels,

enjoying the work you do for the good, I know.

But you don’t forget me, you are just on the end

of a thought; when I think you, you are there.

And you look in without being summoned, often.

I see your face, hear your voice, feel your touch.

It could never be that you would forget me.

But if, impossibly, you did forget me –

I would haunt you in reverse, from earth,

chase after you into the stars, through all Heaven,

shake you by your incorporeal shoulders

with my dense, warm, fierce hands

thrusting my face into yours, and yell: 

This is me, Rosemary, your true love, your wife.

I refuse to forget you! And if you forget me, 

I promise, the Universe will already have stopped.

I decided I wouldn't write to prompts any more, but then I saw this one at 'imaginary garden with real toads': to use the title of a Neruda poem as a starting-point. Who can resist Neruda? Not me!

Missing the Boat

Missing the Boat

It was only

a momentary, passing

flicker of regret 

for an absence

from a place

I might have.…

After all, if

I had not …

or if I …

It’s just – I 

imagined a glimpse

of golden apples,

hints of sunlight

on sparkling water.

For a moment.

Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #431

Phantom

Phantom

She rose in the night

her fairytale was broken

she thought she would sit up and sing ... 

she thought the wind would take her voice

and throw it out over the ocean

but the pearlescent light of pre-dawn 

mocked her, neither one thing

nor the other – just like me, she thought

and dwindled 

far away from the everything that had been

but her story has not yet

reached an ending

and until she decides, chooses

an action a direction,

she must remain listless, ghost-pale

hovering on the outskirts of day

wondering at the restraints

which stop her utterance

and fade the sight from her eyes

as we, too, stop watching.

Sharing at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #428

After Ten Years

After Ten Years

(Reunion with a young friend)


'I'm 78,' I  told him. (I was, then.)

He was amazed. Nevertheless 

he said, of some hinted, unspecified woes:

'I'll tell you later. Plenty of time.'

Just how much time do you imagine 

I've got? I questioned silently.

Off he went again, always the traveller.

Time runs on. The silence lengthens.

Accessing the Eternal

Accessing the Eternal

(Found poems, from online sharing in a Landmark Education 'Wisdom Course')

Looking at the first 

camellia of the season

is heart-stoppingly beautiful,

magnificent every time.

There is just silence. 

Nothing can describe it.

It's the most perfect 

thing in the universe.

************

When I hear  

the high note 

in Nessun Dorma

the world stops

the universe opens.

I'm linking this to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #430

Community?

Community?

until I was 

I didn't have

(one on one)

never had 

a tribe or posse 

because I was half

wasn't always

so much 

as the fact 

I liked 

the deep lots

lovely solitude

I am still 

in many ways

it surprises me

Erasure poem – from a piece of my own writing: a prose draft on the theme of 'community'.

I'm linking this to The Tuesday Platform for Dec 11 2018, at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Where my spirit is

Where my spirit is

More 'found' micropoetry 
(found in emails received)

grandson’s confirmation –

he’ll wear a white robe and stole

with symbols HE chose

************

autumn leaves and deer,

a mountainside in a forest –

restful, once I get there

************

a glorious, sunny day …

we expect gigantic waves,

logs tossed about

************

I found a place 

to share in rituals,

light a candle 

and meditate – my poem 

is where my spirit is

************

I've closed my wings

for the time being –

getting ready to fly


Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #427

As the sun rose ...

As the sun rose ...

'Found' Micropoetry 

(From friends' emails)

as the sun rose

over their garden

his brother died 

************                     

A crazy man

crashed into us – the end

of the Subaru. 

A very fickle life! 

Or a mad moon.

************

In Ballarat East

it’s quiet, it’s green. I can walk

to the town centre.

I have a choir venue

and community garden.

************

I feel fulfilled and free

but I need

a new obsession

From Harlots, Season 2, Episode 8:

Grief comes in great gusts 
to blow you down.

The things men do.

************

imagine your tongue

circling the rosy sunrise

of her nipple


(One way to deal with writer's block is to use other people's words!)


Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #426

Behind the Wall

Behind the Wall

What is the story you have never told? That is the one which will free you to tell all the rest. 

So the advice goes. I think it’s true. 

I know which story I have never told. 

And certainly it’s true that I never can seem to get on with telling the rest. (I make abortive beginnings at times, but they fizzle out.)

I don’t even have to make that story public once it is written, I tell myself. I just have to write it. Just for me, to free me.

I am 78. In less than two months I’ll be 79. Surely I can do it by now? After all, it was 36 years ago! (36 years ago … and yesterday.)

I imagine myself starting to write. The first sentences form in my mind.  They are graceful and easy.

But then the wall rises in front of me again. It is high and wide and very thick. It is made of bluestone blocks. It is topped by rolling scrolls of barbed wire, razor sharp.  

It does not exist physically any more. The whole place was torn down years ago, to make way for a new suburb. (I wonder how people live there, sleep there. Surely they are troubled by ghosts?  Surely they must be possessed by rage and tears, violence and dread, the deepest despair.)

The wall has gone. It is all past history. But still in my mind it rises up. Tell my story? Your story? Our story? It is enough that we lived it. It’s no-one else’s business. 

Except that we wrote it in poems, and sometimes I still do … obliquely. We wrote it in letters too, but they were all burned a long time ago.

I never watch shows set in prison, no matter how good they are said to be. They might be too real. Or not real enough. Either way, I don’t need to look.

Your face is before me, forever young. You were not yet 25 when you said goodbye – to me and everyone.

You smile at me. Your eyes are clear, and very blue. Yes of course I cry … still … again … a little bit. 

I know what we said and wrote to each other. I remember it all. 

In response to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ The Wall

The Farewell

The Farewell

Afterwards I photographed roses

in my friend Maureen's garden,

drank black coffee on her deck, 

and showed her my new Tarot pack

(called Everyday Witch)

because it's light-hearted.

            *********

It was a kindly Memorial.

We were glad we went.

The cemetery was peaceful

with its lawns and trees

and flowers growing,

and the flowers people brought.

Maureen laid our bunch, gently, 

under a spreading tree

in the shade.

I hugged various old friends

I hadn't thought to see there.

Penelope's reach

into the community

was one-on-one with each of us.

None of us needed to say 

anything to each other – 

knowing the depth of love

in every connection with her:

impossible for anything less.

Death makes us all poets! Many

had written poems for her

after she died. They were read.

Several of us wept. Yet all of us had

certainty that she was now

with God, and happy.

When we toasted her,

we instinctively raised our glasses 

high, in celebration, to the sky.

There was no anguish,

even though we so loved her.

(There was some shock. Too young ...

and doesn't yet feel gone.)

We sang, we reminisced,

standing or sitting around

as the sun grew warmer

and the morning moved on.

A morning in early Spring,

in a glade. A good time, good place
for one who had given herself 

the email name of Artemis – 
who, wise and deep as she was,

kept the girl in herself alive.

And now she's dead? 
Twenty-odd years

and at least one other lifetime 

of friendship suddenly over? No. 

Never have I felt more assured

that the soul is eternal.

            *********

Knowing her life might not be long

she had written us all a letter,

trusted to a friend who was executor,

for when this time came:

telling us that our love

gave her power to see the light.

It goes both ways, Penelope –

you in whom we, fortunate, rejoice!

I took this photo back in 2001, but life didn't greatly alter her appearance.