After the Fires, Koalas

After the Fires, Koalas

After the fires, koalas

run to people who offer water, 

drink eagerly,

allow themselves to be handled,

taken away in soft bags

(or one woman’s shirt 

hastily doffed) 

for rescue: their burnt feet 

ointmented and bandaged 

or put into bootees

especially knitted.

They may not know 

what long-term human failings

caused the raging flames

destroying so many of them,

so much of their habitat –

but how wondrous they do know

individuals they encounter

or who approach

can be trusted utterly 

to offer help. How good 

that they are right.

And also see this story. 

Written for 'imaginary garden with real toads' – 
WORDY FRIDAY WITH WILD WOMAN: 
STAYING STRONG IN A WORLD OF CLIMATE CRISIS

(Images: Fair use.)

Escape

Escape

I am here with my family, away from the smoke

that increases the nearer you reach the Equator.

I am having a Christmas respite, pretending

that all will be well, and plans for the future

can come to fruition; this beautiful world

continue to nourish us, let us still flourish –

but no, we are ending, no lie and no joke,

and yes the world can continue without us

and better it should, for none can outsmart us

so well as we turn the jest back on ourselves.

This moment in time is peaceful and happy.

Everyone’s going about their business

as usual, as if we had years ahead of us. Christmas,

a time of feasting and family (and spending money)

will happen once more, as it has done for forever 

or at least a few centuries one way and another.

If it wasn’t so sad, it might be funny – but

soon there’ll be no-one around to laugh with …

and in that long moment the planet will sigh

and begin to start living without us. Goodbye.


Written in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Year's End; and, belatedly, for the previous Midweek Motif ~ A / The Moment. Thank you again for all your Midweek Motifs, Susan and Sumana.

(I sat down to write, intending my subject matter to be something quite different; but this is what arrived. I feel it is important that we not give in to despair, which leads to inaction and impacts the collective energy – yet this poem expresses undeniable despair.)

Smoke

Smoke

These weeks becoming months 

the clouded horizon merely thickens or thins –

not with cloud, with smoke. It isn't true

that smoke's evanescent, ethereal. Not this smoke.

It blots out the sky; fluctuates, fades a trifle,

only to come back denser, higher, closer.

Where there's this smoke, there are certainly 
fires; we can smell them. On our screens 

we see them tower, spread, engulf.

We live with it, begin to stop mentioning its presence

to each other, knowing others in areas around us

are worse off, this little town so far spared,

although some smaller burns come close

before being dowsed. Meanwhile we stockpile

face masks, pack our emergency bags, conserve water

(even before restrictions are announced).

My own breathing remains unaffected – because,

paradoxically, I already need to use an inhaler daily.

Eventually, as time goes on, I notice

I no longer have to glance at the horizon

in order to know when the haze presses close

or lifts a little. It has entered into me,

part of my person. I walk not as myself alone, 

not only as myself: I walk carrying the being of smoke.

It lives inside me, I know it intimately.

Everyone who lives here would say the same.

I have become, I am, the embodiment of smoke.

Written in response to Weekend Mini-Challenge: 13 Poetic Bits of Kerry at 'imaginary garden with real toads', using a line, 'I am the embodiment of smoke', taken from Kerry O'Connor's poem Fortress of Dreams

I live in one of the several parts of Australia where huge fires have been raging nearby for weeks – though not quite as close as in some other places.

Mortar and Pestle

Mortar and Pestle

Wouldn’t you think a witch would cook?

We imagine her over her cauldron, stirring 

potions to make someone fall in love,

or hearty soups to keep her family healthy.

We think she’ll be grinding herbs very fine

for either of these recipes. Well, you know what?

I haven’t the patience. I’m a quick-and-easy cook,

and as for love potions, I think they’re unethical.

I do use herbs, but I don’t grind them myself.

I was telling a friend only today

(quoting Erica Jong, in Fear of Flying)

‘You’re a poet. You don’t have to cook too.’

I’m a witch and a poet. I make my magic 

with words. That might be the oldest way.

It’s surely one of the most potent. With words

and thoughts and passion. Not so much

with plants. So I’m sorry, I can’t show you 

a photo of my mortar and pestle; I have none.

 
Written for #decemberwitch 9 on Instagram.

Some witches – and poets – do enjoy cooking, and good luck to them. But this is my excuse for not having a mortar and pestle photo to post on Instagram.

Also sharing with Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose #9. 

Happy Holidays / Holy Days, everybody!

The Only Constant

The Only Constant

Driving to town, I saw the old flower shed –

still labelled with its big sign out front, still

with sunflowers painted on the outside walls.

It’s been closed for – my goodness, years. That’s 

what happens when you live in a town so long.

I wanted it to stay the same. Yet I like

some of the changes: the new cafés,

the pop-up gelato shop, the downtown 

arts precinct … and hey, the flowers at the shed 
were too expensive anyway.

Changes happen. Once more I’m without a cat.

I decided I won’t get another, but maybe one

is trying to get me. He came and sat peacefully 

in my back yard the other day. He jumped up and left

when I spoke to him in surprise, but he didn’t run.

The place where I live has changed 

since Andrew lived with me. Gradually

I’ve geared it more and more to one person 

living alone. No-one to please but me. I wonder 

if his spirit notices the changes to his last home?

Some people hate change. Some embrace it,

find it exciting. Others are simply resigned:

it’s what it is, no sense resisting. At different times 

I’m all three. But we can’t change the fact 

that life is constantly subject to change.

'Change is the only constant in life' – Heraclitus

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Changes

Sunflower image: Public Domain

Tagllock

Taglock

I tag you by your fingernail clippings,

lock them into the folds of a small doll,

hidden from sight, and cast my spells.

Wicked witch? No, it’s a healing 

I am bringing about for you

by means of this magical connection.

Secretive? No again. You knew.

You willingly gave them to me, 
these cast off pieces of you, when I asked.

But it’s easy now to disbelieve

‘all that silly superstition’

when you’re walking around well.

Written for #decemberwitch 6 on Instagram

Altars

Altars

My main altar has a mirror

with runes around its oval edge,

drawers full of witchy supplies –

incense, candles, a herb-cutting knife 

etcetera. All the four elements 

are represented and displayed

on its surface, as on all my altars,

even the tiny one in my bedroom;

even the writer’s altar above my desk

with its pictures of wide-eyed Brigid

wearing blue like Mary, and graceful Pan

alive in black ink, fiercely intent.

On the desk itself Minerva stands

with her owl. Close by are both

Sekhmet and Thoth, he of course

holding a tablet and stylus: inscribing.

The bedroom altar is more for healing.

There’s a picture of the Blue Madonna

with names on the back, in pencil 

to change for the now well, or new ill.

My working altar, my casting altar,

has dragon statues; the oracle 

I channelled and made; several wands

and my athame (a crystal laser).

Sometimes I think I want to spell it ‘alter’, 
for the work of change. Oops,

that’s the other kind of ‘spell’. Or is it?

Even before altars, we had Word.

Note for non-witches: 'Athame' (a witch's dagger, for cutting energy) is pronounced either ATH-uh-may or ah-THAH-may. I say it the first way.

Note for witches: No, I have no trouble mixing pantheons!

Written in response to the #decemberwitch challenge on Instagram. Another option was to photograph my altars. That felt too personal. But then this poem wouldn't fit into the space of an Instagram post, so I used just this one photo.

Also linking to Pantry of Poetry and Prose #7 at Poets United.

Bushfire Season

Bushfire Season

Smoke fills all horizons

while my geraniums still bloom.

Smoke blooms, fills

all my still geraniums.

My still horizons fill

with geraniums, all smoke.

My geraniums fill (still)

smoke-bloom horizons.

Still smoke blooms;

geraniums fill my horizons.

Still my smoke horizons

fill geraniums, bloom.

Horizons fill with still blooms: 

smoke geraniums.

All my geraniums bloom smoke,

while horizons still.

Written for Weekend Mini Challenge: The Uncertainty of the Poet at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

(This is very much what my November has been like, here on the east coast of Australia!) 

I think about you: American sentences

I think about you: American sentences

(Observations on the foibles of human behaviour – more senryu than haiku-like – these are meant to be read separately, not as a sequence.)

My past relationships taught me love has many forms and many ways.

How difficult and hard to reach she has become since her bereavement.

That girl with the sweet voice is always using it to stir up trouble.

They contest the will, wanting to hang on to more of their dead father.

It’s not that I’m still grief-struck – just that I think about you all the time.

For Fran: 2.

The first part of this two-poem sequence was posted a few days ago, under the post title 'An old story'.

FOR FRAN

2. Another epitaph

On neat quiet afternoons of leaves

I visit clouds and pastures of the mind

leafing through notes of your faces

— which were always windy

exchange perhaps yours for mine

almost find you there

(sudden surge of hibiscus)

… but then you’re gone

glimpses of cards in a ruffled pack   rippling too fast

quick fingering   piano   after the keys have been touched

— flashes of shadows …

you are the past

frayed petals blowing down-mind:

my black garden where you do not bloom

flower-of-an-hour

my sister my ghost

Note: 'flower-of-an-hour': a type of hibiscus.
(Photo by 'American 187' licensed under Creative Commons CC BY-SA 4.0)

from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
and Secret Leopard, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005.

First published Poets Choice 1979 (The Last Poets Choice)


To be shared with Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose #6

Nightly

Nightly

I long for sleep

or tell myself I do,

yet keep deferring

bed-time.

I still sleep 

in the big bed

I shared with you,

when you were alive.

I have the bed

all to myself now,

can stretch out as I like;

I don’t.

When I retire 

late, alone, wakeful,

the true longing

is not for sleep.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Longing

Each verse is a separate 'American sentence' – just because I wanted to give it some structure. This means that each could also stand alone, senryu-like.

Secret Blue

Secret Blue

They think I love purple best.

They see me tenderly nurture

my small pot of hearts-ease,

surround myself with amethyst,

wear clothes in all shades

from soft lavender to rich magenta –

but no, my longest, deepest love

is for blue – deep blue,

the colour of ocean

(the Pacific, that jewel

adorning these shores)

or the unequivocal, singing blue 

of a sunlit sky in high midsummer,

uninterrupted vista ...

the blue of cornflowers 

and sky-high mountains,

a love I shared with my Dad

when I was very young, before

I was disillusioned, learning him

selfish and weak ... but

the love of blue remains

(and of cornflowers and mountains).

Blue is the colour 

of my true loves' eyes –

two of my husbands,

three of my lovers:

(divided differently) three 

the pure, soft blue

of the sky in Spring; 

two the blue of the sea

lit with bright turquoise,

or the centre of a flame.

The darkest blue is the sapphire

in the ring you gave me –

dear third husband

and last lover –

to declare your love 

and mark our marriage.

The gold band is now so thin ...

and you gone seven years into death ...

I finally took it off. 

But I see it still without even looking:

a depth of blue so enduring 

it might be mistaken for black –

and far within, when I gaze,

that flash of hidden, constant light.

Written for Thotpurge's Poetry Tuesday #4 – Blue

And shared in Writers’ Pantry #4 at Poets and Storytellers United.

The Calling

The Calling

The moon high in my window 

floated, gazing, all the long nights,

claiming me: whispering, singing –

beginning in my far childhood

and never ending, not yet.

I knew and did not resist.

‘You,’ I said in my silent thought,

‘are my lover, my mother,

my teacher, my secret God.’

I chose with my whole heart.

Was chosen and chose.

Was claimed and laid claim.

It was written; witnessed by stars

and by the dark space of night itself.

Written in blood, carved deep.

It was always written.

The rest I was free to invent.

Life, other loves, children,

even other work, other

delights of the soul.

But here in the deep night

which is home, 

only this truth remains,

all else extraneous 

as the moon and I commune.

Written for Thotpurge's Poetry Tuesday #3 – Borrowed, where we are invited to 'borrow some magic' from a poem that inspires us. I've always loved Dylan Thomas's 'In my craft or sullen art'.

Also linking to Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose #8. I'll be travelling when the Pantry goes live, with limited internet access for a couple of days, so I may be a trifle tardy reading and commenting on other's writings. I'll catch up soon!

An old story ...

The United Nations General Assembly has designated November 25 as the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, saying, 'Sexual violence against women and girls is rooted in centuries of male domination. Let us not forget that the gender inequalities that fuel rape culture are essentially a question of power imbalances.' — UN Secretary-General António Guterres. See further details here: Facts everyone should know.

To this end, the monthly 'Poets Out Loud' spoken word event in my town, which happened this last Thursday, had the

theme 'Women's Voices'. We were asked to wear orange, the colour associated with this issue. Not having a lot of orange in my wardrobe, I went op-shopping (i.e. thrift shopping, for those of you more used to that term). The only orange item I could find was a big sun-hat. So I decided, 'Yeah, why not? Let's make a statement.' A poet friend took a snap – a fuzzy shot which no amount of editing will fix, but you get the idea.

I chose an old poem to share, written about a friend of mine who died after crashing her car in the early hours of a Sunday morning. This is the one with which I came second to young Jasmine Logan in the slam, as I mention at the end of my latest Wild Fridays post at Poets United. I wrote the first draft in 1979. How sad that it's still relevant.

I'd been worried that my fun outfit might signal the wrong mood, but at the first words the audience's faces became attentive and serious.

I'm sharing this poem now in Pantry of Poetry and Prose #5 at Poets United. 

FOR FRAN

1. Driving home from the massage parlour

drugged and down and speeding

all at once

with a head full of pain

driving

from all the other times and ways

that she’d been smashed

home

to the latest one she called love

who bashed her up and took her money

an old story

– how beautiful her body was

how early she learned

what beautiful bodies mean

her dad when she was 10

and said to all his friends

‘Come around, Fran’s home.’

They came.

Later her brothers.

Working the Cross by 14.

Same    old    story.

She married loneliness

a husband chasing cash

through too many country towns

but shocked

by her earnings

the home she bought

for permanence

he kept.

She saved his face in her wallet

always

played his songs

a whiskey-sucking purple satin

razzle-dazzle girl

clanking golden chains

loved poems

music

her children most of the time

(they were girls)

and tried to mother me

but

alky / drug-runner / jailbird / slut

got what was coming

… death that was coming

just the same old story

just another woman killed by men

only once

she put her foot down

hard enough

to make an end

From Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985 

and Secret Leopard, Alyscamps (Paris) 2005.

First published Going Down Swinging (earlier version),

Also in The Great White Hunter Meets Darkest Africa 

and Walking the Dogs (Pariah Press anthology).


I had several tries at writing this. The first half-dozen or so consisted of incoherent screaming onto the page. In the end I took out all my emotion and pared it down to facts, and that worked. 

Part 2 of this sequence (in very different mood) is posted here.

The Possibilty of Peaceful Ageing

The Possibility of Peaceful Ageing
(on entering my ninth decade)

Now I am new, 

softly writing the winds of the past

into history

where they may blow unheard

taking away the rains and storms 

and even also

the fierce fires that sometimes

in towering beauty

flared and razed

leaving scorched ground, with ruins

to be repaired or be abandoned.

I turn and face forwards

into a calm and gentle sunlight

over fields and a river.

There are trees.

On one side is a three-humped

cloud-catching mountain.

From the other I smell hints,

tangy and fresh,

of the near ocean. 

A few white clouds

sweep the sky like angel wings.

‘Follow me!’ she cries,

that Goddess to whom

I have given my heart and allegiance,

and I step with assurance 

into the realms of light, 

calm and radiant.

‘Here is joy,’ she tells me,

‘embrace it. You’ve earned it.’

And I dare say I have. But I pause.

While strife remains 

I have a duty of healing.

Also, when I sit in my armchair 

a small black cat

climbs on to my lap –

dead Selene, who settles 

as she did when she was alive.

Or I find a letter 

from an old love, long gone,

and linger over it, failing to destroy.

‘Forgive me, Lady,’ I say. 

‘I am not yet ready

for blissful oblivion.’

Rare sample of Egyptian terra cotta sculpture, could be Isis mourning Osiris, (raising her right arm over her head, a typical mourning sign). (Public Domain)

Written for Thotpurge's Poetry Tuesday #2 – New