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

Authenticity

Authenticity

‘I hate you,’ she yelled 

at the drug dealer

standing in the doorway

of his other, legal business

in the main street of town.

‘You ruined our boys!’ –

the lads just out of school

he gave jobs to and then 

got addicted. ‘I hate you!’ 

She bellowed his name.

‘I hear you,’ he said sourly,

eventually. But it wasn’t him

she was really telling,

it was the town. Some

muttered. Others clapped.

Maybe they knew

she took those boys in, 

fed them from her own pocket, 

helped them set up a band….

One by one they got away.

She invited the whole town

to her birthday party this year.

‘Just turn up,’ she said. Privately

told me how honoured she felt

as community elders turned up.

She never told me a lie,

even when I didn’t like the truth.

And she never told me a truth

that wasn’t said in love,

nor one that didn’t help.

At her memorial service, 

many wept. I made a speech 

and told the truth. The truth was, 

she was Love. (‘Hatred isn't wrong,’

she once said. ‘It springs from love.’

I didn’t understand at the time.

Thinking back, I do now.) 
We told stories of what she gave us

and how uncompromising she was. 

And played her song: ‘I did it my way.’

Written for Midweek Motif ~ Authenticity at Poets United

Turning 80

Turning 80

For Karin

In a week it will be my birthday.

People already tell me: ‘looking good’ 

– for my age. I’ll be turning 80.

I don’t wish to be younger. I want 

to be 'young on the inside', as my friend 
who reached 80 a week ago says.

She is vibrant. Who sees wrinkles

behind her laughter, or weight of years

in her quick, jaunty steps and gestures?

I want to stay ever new, all 
my experiences kept, freshly alive.

I tell her, ’We are becoming ageless.’

Karin on her 80th:

Linked to Poetry Tuesday at THOTPURGE, 

where the word for Nov 5th is Old.

Her Teddy

Her Teddy

She kept her teddy close, I saw,

in that last seven years of illness,
and obviously for much longer:

the same one she’d had as a child.

He was by her big recliner chair

every day, and next to her in bed.

‘When they’re loved,’ she told me, 

‘Teddy Bears come to life.’

So I was horrified when her brother

said they cremated him with her.

Then I remembered. She had explained

that between times they go dormant.

And anyway, I rationalised, 

it’s not the same kind of being alive

as us – not with a functioning body.

The burning wouldn’t, couldn’t have hurt.

Today I just had to go into Vinnie’s op-shop.

I walked past, but I was drawn back.

And I found him: a teddy, smaller than hers

but otherwise matching, even the clothes.

(Did her dear ghost orchestrate this?)

Of course I brought him home!

I placed him with other mementos of her.

But first I gave him a very long hug.

Sharing at Poets United's Midweek Motif: A MillionYears Howl....