Paganing

 Poetry Month, day 30

At the final day of Thirty Poems in April for 2018, we are asked to turn nouns into verbs. What wild and wondrous metaphors that  might produce! ("If we firework, is it from rage or orgasm?" we are asked.) But poems have minds of their own, and mine took a rather more literal approach.

Paganing

I'm Samhaining tonight.

No, the date's not wrong, 

I've Hemisphered it

(Southerned it) Sabbated it

to this arc of the circle

where I live and witch.

Oh, there'll be plenty 

on the other side of the world 

Northerning the date –

lighting fires and jumping

into each other's hot arms,

Beltaining the evening away.

Here, I’m ancestring.

Places are set around the table:

plated, cutleried, cupped,

food and wine ready

for those who care to come

spiriting through the veil.

And not only my forebears,
those past generations –

no, also my husbands  

(three) who unspoused me

in life or death but all dead now …

and certain others never wedlocked.

What kind of ritualling would it be

without those faces at my feast?

But first I’ll go midnighting, out there

with my wands and my black cat.

So long since I've ceremonied outdoors!

It's overcast, dark. That’s fitting.

I candle the space minimally. I know

that my neighbour over the back fence

is away, having schizophrenicked himself

into hospital, poor chap, but it frees me

to cast and call unseen; to between; to open;

then welcome honoured guests.

Away With ...

Poetry Month, day 29

For This Is (Almost) The End at "imaginary garden with real toads" we are asked to write about that moment just before something ends. Which I did – but then I had to go on a little further to answer a question that arose.

Away With …

Strange, enchanted beings

of the forest, of the dream,

I know you didn't mean 

to break my tender heart,

you simply didn't comprehend  

that such a thing could be.

You'd been there all my childhood

in the light around the flowers,

the music of the bees.

It wasn't possible

that no-one else could see or hear

your shimmering, your song.

Playtimes full of laughter,

dancing dizzy, falling down –

how was I to know

they could not last forever?

That only for the very young

your frolics are, and gifts.

But why do I remember

what the others all forget?

You circled me and smiled,

that final afternoon.

I didn't know it was goodbye,

but you knew, didn't you?

And one, perhaps, felt pity

for the awkward, dreamy girl

too shy with other kids,

so blew some fairy dust

and whispered, "Meet us in your dreams."

But dreams are not a life.

Watching TV on a Wet Night

Poetry Month, day 28

At "imaginary garden with real toads" the prompt is: Fashion Me Your Words to FOLD, in which we are asked to use the fold form (invented by Gillena Cox) to write about destructive weapons. The fold must also always include something about nature and its effect on the poet. 

Watching TV on a Wet Night

Now it’s falling, the steady rain

we’ve needed here: a strangely hushed sound

beyond my wall and window-pane,

as if it whispers to the dark garden.

Now it’s falling, the steady rain

of death, there, on the targeted city.

The silent chemicals don’t even whisper, but pain

soon has the survivors crying, screaming.

On yelling parents’ faces, despair is plain.

Pale, shocked faces of children stare blankly,

then recede from the screen.... In the background, steady rain.

I Am Lonely

Poetry Month, day 27

In Let's Join the Children at "imaginary garden with real toads", we are invited to use one of several paintings by children as inspiration. This one was painted by a 13-year-old. After I gazed at it a while, this unknown voice spoke through me (btw it felt male):

I Am Lonely

I am lonely under the purple sunset.

On black hills against the sky, I am lonely.

Music is no solace, as I am not the music.

Or, in another reality, I am nothing but

the music. Which I play with competence

on my Baby Grand, but not with soul,

not with the outrageous passion I knew

when you and I were young, when you

painted me in stark silhouette, here.

How did you know to paint my loneliness

before it had arrived – before the silver moon

rose to make us all lonely, in our separate

outposts of the dark? How did you know

that I would look so calm and relaxed, 

my foot pumping the pedal, my back straight

and my hair worn in that careless ponytail?

I wanted to walk with you, in among

visible trees, with birds chirping. I wanted

to be just as other couples, to be ordinary.

I might have sung a little, in that daylight,

and you might have sung with me – no need 

to perch alone on a height, no need to be 

a focus for the million burning eyes of night.

But the sky is washed white, stained purple.

The hills are black. My face is invisible.

Wrong Men

Poetry Month, day 26

For A list with a twist at "imaginary garden with real toads" we are asked to create our own list of five items to write about. What I haven't done is name my – er – items, but I've listed them by other characteristics, and the title tells you the category.

Wrong Men

The ship's deck

cold under stars.

A hidden corner;

your warm hands.

Your father advised,

two years later:

Don't marry. You, 

sadly persuaded, obeyed.

            ***

Dazzling dancing man,

lover of jazz ...

we both were.

I still am.

Oh long ago

so briefly wed,

wild gambling man ...

our parting sobs.

            ***

You bent deliberately 

for that kiss.

I reached up, 

standing on tiptoe.

Lamplight and incense,

our mingled hair.

But the secrets

broke us later. 

            ***

Your face appeared

always sunlit, eyes

blue-green oceans

for my swimming –

yet you lived

in engulfing dark.

Until your escape 

forever into light.

            ***

Our lovely laughter!

How you delighted

my foolish heart,

sweet wicked boy.

Knew you fae – 

forgot those can't

attach humanly; also

I can't fly.

My Favourite Vices

Poetry Month, day 25

In Virtue or Vice at "imaginary garden with real toads" we are asked to write about at least one of the Seven Deadly Sins or Seven Heavenly Virtues.

My Favourite Vices

Mine are the sensual vices,

gluttony and lust.

And they are worth their prices –

if pay one must.

My moist, warm orifices

weren't meant to rust!

I cherish both sweetness and savour,

equally willing

to relish any flavour

so long as it's filling,

and feast in a blissful fervour 

of juices spilling.

Mine are the sins of pleasure,

the decadent.

I love to gorge at leisure

with full intent.

I never hoard my treasure,

I like it spent.

In that lost part....

Poetry month, day 24

For this Tuesday Platform at "imaginary garden with real toads" we are offered the suggestion of writing twitter poetry, within the 140 character limit. Here's mine:


In that lost part ...

In that lost part of morning

just after first light

I forget not to think of you.

You're linked now 

to birdsong, and rosy sky.

#tweetpoem

I do occasionally write twitter poetry (or tweetpoems) and am grateful to Sanaa, today's prompter, for not specifying a poem of exactly 140 characters. This leaves room for me to include the hashtag, which I normally do.

The poem is untitled, but this post had to have a title, so I made it the opening phrase.

Yes, the poem has been posted – hashtagged and untitled – to @SnakyPoet on twitter.

Nearly a year later: But I have now deleted my twitter account, after years of using it less and less often.

Hallucinations

Poetry Month, day 23

Written for An Antic Disposition at "imaginary garden with real toads", where our focus is "those troubles of the brain, shaping fantasies and antic dispositions which make us human."

Hallucinations 

When the other passengers' heads

warped out of shape, becoming

skulls and leering monsters, I knew

it wasn't real, even though I was really 

seeing it, with my naked eyes. And I wasn't 

on any drugs, so I knew I must be mad.

I got off the tram at my stop, acting calm,

after sitting very still and quiet. Must

appear normal. I told no-one. But later

when I had the mood swings, after I couldn't 

stop the hysterics, I said to my doctor, "I think

I need a psychiatrist." He asked why.

So I told him. "I think I must be going mad."

He asked why. So I told him that. It felt brave

and desperate. No turning back. He said

if I was mad, I wouldn't be sitting in his room

requesting psychiatric help. But he did agree

I needed a psychiatrist. And he knew a good one.

That was over fifty years ago. Today I look 

at your dear face, your beautiful face, and I know 

again I am not seeing true. This time the real

physical appearance of you happens to be

the illusion. It's sad. Again I am not deceived. 

Yet I try to linger, deny. Perhaps I'm a little bit mad?

Born to Jump

Poetry Month, day 22

Born to Jump

You've done a bit of it in your life, but never quite

got over that moment of panic before the thrill –

to feel that sudden shock, the jolt, the drop.

Jump and soar doesn't immediately happen; you're

off the ground but not flying. Look Ma, no wings.

The realisation hits and you scrabble for anything – 

cliff grasses, broken twigs, fallen feathers,

all cobbled together somehow, mid-air, and stitched.

The wind is whistling past rapidly, loud and screechy.

Time is not on your side. But you do improve with practice,

and hopefully, even as a beginner you stay aloft, you

build a serviceable floating device –

your parachute, perhaps – until you learn to grow 

wings, real live ones ... anyway it's not easy but

on the whole, it's exciting, it gets addictive:

the sudden shock, as I said, the scrabble, the thrill....

Way too soon really, you're flying with ease, up and up and 

down to the ground again to touch and bounce, and leap, and start all over.

Image: freely available without attribution, under CCo license.

For Poets of April at "imaginary garden with real toads" we are invited to use one of several quotations for inspiration. I chose one often wrongly attributed to Annie Dillard, who is on record as denying she ever wrote or said it. It has been attributed to others too, notably Kurt Vonnegut, but belongs to Ray Bradbury, who said, in full:

“If we listened to our intellect, we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go in business because we’d be cynical: ‘It’s gonna go wrong.’ Or ‘She’s going to hurt me.’ Or ‘I had a couple of bad love affairs so therefore …'

“Well, that’s nonsense. You’re going to miss life. You’ve got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.” 

I have used that last sentence as a first-word acrostic. (And the title refers to the fact that I really see this as a metaphor for making poetry.)

Mistaken Identity

Poetry month, day 21

For Mythical Creatures at "imaginary garden with real toads"

Mistaken Identity

Enamoured I was, of his fiery breath,

the metallic clash of scales and claws

and those magnificent wings.

"No," said my friends, "he is reptile"

but I was blind to that point of view.

Perceiving no look of snake, I saw Dragon.

Only when finally alone with him,

I wondered why he chose, instead of sky

and glorious flight, that rock in the water.

He folded his wings and began to look like ...

could it be a lizard? Then he opened wide 

a huge jaw. At last I discerned the crocodile.

Of Country

Poetry Month, day 20

The prompt today at "imaginary garden with real toads" is Say the Names of the Places You Love.

Of Country

Murwillumbah in the Northern Rivers,

under the mountain known as Wollumbin

(which Captain Cook christened Mt Warning)

is a home which I came to late in life.

Seers, oracles and guides all told me

I belonged far north of where I was. Then Fate 

and the Universe took a hand, offering a house 

for rent, all the way up here, in Pumpenbil

out past Tyalgum, at the end of a dirt road

nearly to the top of the hill. The name our landlady

gave that place was Djieriong, a Bundjalung word

meaning "Freedom of the Heart". 

And we found that here. Though we didn't

find any of the "many possums" we were told that

Murwillumbah was the "place of" – and as for

the mountain, there are those who say

white settlers misunderstood. That name,

they say, belonged originally to a different mountain

further along the range. Be that as it may, 

it seems to me they are all good names 

to use in this rainforest land, this sacred earth,

this mountain-ringed, vast valley of many rivers,

this huge Caldera around its crystal-full peak.

Do I say this is now my place? That idea of land 

as possession, as property, is a notion brought 

by invaders. The original people say, I believe, 

that they belong to the land; custodians, caretakers. 

And more than that, deeper than that: the land that bore them 

is their spirit home. They are always connected 

to that country. One time, for reasons, I and some others 

were given the freedom of this land here, for life, 

by one who could – a Githabul elder 

from out Kyogle way. So yes, I do belong.

Note: Shae Brown, the above-mentioned "landlady" became a very dear friend as well. She comments elsewhere, on this poem:
"So beautiful Rosemary, it is always a delicate balance being non-Indigenous and being sensitive to knowledge as well. I connected with a Bundjalung Elder when I first moved here, to introduce myself and to respectfully ask permission to be here, which he gave...and then gave me the word to represent my relationship with Country."

Unseasonable

Poetry Month, day 19

In Get Listed at "imaginary garden with real toads" I chose, from several lists of words to include in a poem: sensual, features, blue, mouth. (We could also be inspired by a poem about Spring in April – but where I live, April means Autumn!)

Unseasonable

Sensual Autumn fails to arrive 

this April. The warm blue skies

we expected do not appear.

Instead we look up at a vast white

stippled with grey. So far, the month

features rain, thunder, wind, more rain. 

The mouth of the river is rippled 

with stormy waves, even before

it merges with the sea. What gods

must we pray to, so as to avert

further punishment for all our misdeeds?

Are we ourselves the gods who now

make the weather happen? Then who

indeed shall we pray to? (Mother 

and Father both being gone.)

Five and a Half Years Later

Poetry Month, day 18

In Write Here. Write Now. at "imaginary garden with real toads". we were directed to breathe in, breathe out, be here now, and write about the moment.

Five and a Half Years Later

When I breathe in deep, and out,

when time and the world stop,

when I come into the moment

here and now, when I enter myself ...

I know that nothing is different,

it is only covered

by the small occurrences 

that make a life,

it has only gone deeper under

the everyday necessities of being.

I am still stopped 

at that moment when there was no more

you and me but only me

continuing

after you breathed in 

and out

and stopped.

Predominantly Black

Poetry Month, day 17

Predominantly Black

On White II by Vassily Kandinsky

He is a knight 

setting off for battle,

lance couched and ready,

the four shod hooves of his horse 

lifting high, glinting. At this stage

his black helmet is still visor up.

He boards a ship.

One sail is furled along the mast.

The other flies, bold yellow.

The ship's flag is red,

matching the kingly crest 

on the knight's helmet.

Over all, superimposed, central,

but unbeknownst to him,

is the round clock-face of Time.

His hours – perhaps even minutes –

are numbered. He is a soldier

going to war. This story ends badly.

The painting is labelled simply, deliberately,

On White II – the artist refusing

colourful interpretation. "It's an exercise,"

he is saying, "in hues and shapes.

Nothing more." But then he gives it

to us. And here and now to me.

In my world, knights with lances

are long gone, ancient. Now we go to war 

with planes as often as ships, 

though we also still fight on the ground. 

We watch on TV. We know it won't end well.

The clock ticks. It's a time-bomb.

At "imaginary garden with real toads", in The Tuesday Platform ~ April Style, we are invited to be inspired by any Kandinsky painting that speaks to us. This one was voluble indeed!

I'll have to rewrite this poem some day, in the light of this fascinating and comprehensive discussion of Kandinsky, which quite invalidates what I've suggested about his paintings being intended as visual exercises only!

Image used according to Fair Use.

Remembering Games of My Childhood

Poetry Month, day 16

Remembering Games of My Childhood

My Grandpa taught me cribbage,

a complex game for two. 

All I remember now

is putting tiny pegs 

in rows of tiny holes

on a narrow, rectangular board.

What I really remember, still, 

is those long, quiet talks, 

heads bending close. 

He taught me many things 

besides the game; never 

treated me as just a kid.

Uncle Ian taught all us kids

how to play Chinese Checkers, 

around the dining table. 

I loved the strong colours

of the round balls, and loved the big 

six-pointed star we jumped them across.

Checkers was a noisy game

with lots of laughter. After that I never 

could properly learn chess, later;

kept wanting to take all the pieces fast. 
Uncle Ian treated us exactly like kids.

Both ways were good, I remember.


Image Public Domain

For It's All Fun and Games at "imaginary garden with real toads"

So High Climbs the Price When You Want a Thing

Poetry month, day 15

So High Climbs the Price When You Want a Thing

so much you want it that you pay the price – Villon

Bali 1973.
Sanur beach.

A row of tiny shops.

The hollowed stump 

of a coconut palm

remade as bowl and lid,

painstakingly carved.

Bill saw my look –

fleeting, 

but he knew me. 

He began haggling.

I walked out.

Mustn't show

my huge desire.

Afterwards: "How 

are we going to get it 

back home on the plane?"

Clothes packed in

as well as around it,

inside our trunk.

Excess luggage fee.

Still worth it, 55 years on;

gracing my hallway,

holding my oracle cards.


For Serendipity and a poet at "imaginary garden with real toads".