Plan was ... (variations on a theme)

Plan was …

(1)

Walked this morning
to the quarry,
over the crocodile track,
but took the wrong path.

(There was another way down
but that was steep
and the long grass
hid holes.)


(2)

the sign
was wrong
was down

I headed
up


The prompt for Weekly Scribblings #51 at Poets and Storytellers United is to revisit any Weekly Scribblings prompt from the past year. I like to play with found poems, so that's the one I chose (#43).

I am friends on facebook with several in this community, including Marja, and recently enjoyed some wonderful photos she posted with this text:

'Walked this morning to the quarry, over the crocodile track, Kennedys Bush track, to sign of the Bell Bird. Plan was to go down into Governors Bay but took the wrong path. There was another way down but that was steep and the long grass hid some holes. Not good for the clumsy so I headed for Sign of the Kiwi where William picked me up.'

Her words, too, captured my imagination. In them I found both of the above poems, which I see as variations on a theme. The method of composition was somewhere in between the classic found poem, which reproduces a fragment of text verbatim (or at least very closely) and the classic erasure, which uses widely separated words and phrases to create something with an entirely different meaning from the original.

 

The Knowing

The Knowing

Down in my bones I feel,

deeply, the stir of truth –

lighter than a pinprick, 

fainter than a whisper, 

easy to miss or ignore;

not so much a voice

as an echo,

not so much a ripple 

as a shiver,

lasting a moment only

unless I stop

and pay attention –

when it responds,

rising, swelling, 

making a murmur

and finally filling

my whole body:

lifting my arm, my hand,

moving my legs and feet,

speaking through my throat

with the resonance

of the absolute,

the clarity

of a slicing knife,

the directness of the heart.

Written in response to Weekly Scribblings #50: 'Down In My Bones' at Poets and Storytellers United.

Loss and Longing, Love and Light

Loss and Longing, Love and Light

Nana (my mother’s mother) was the great love of my early childhood. We all loved her, the whole family. I was only four when we lost her.

I recall her long, long hair when she let it out at night, brushed it slowly and firmly, then plaited it again and looped the plait into a coil on her neck. 

I liked to watch the lingering strokes of the brush; how deftly yet leisurely she divided the strands and laid them over each other to gradually form the plait; the placing of the long hairpins; and the last gesture as she firmly patted her bun into place.

I recall the soft lap I curled up in; the warm, cradling arms. ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child,’ she crooned, lulling me to sleep.

I couldn’t really grasp the language of the next bit: ‘Pity my simplicity’ (not too long a word for me even then, only I thought it meant I was stupid) ‘and suffer me to come to Thee’ (I didn’t like the idea of anyone suffering, thanks a lot!). But that was irrelevant. Mainly, Nana’s lap was the place to be: my place.

After Nana died, my Mum lay a long time in a darkened room. ‘Don’t cry,’ said my Dad to me, ‘you’ll upset her. Go and play.’ I wandered listlessly around the lawn and along the paths. I told myself she was in Heaven. I listened to hear her in the clouds. I felt, slightly, that I did; but aloft, so distant….  

Years later – all the years following her loss – I heard the family tales: her melodic voice; the collection of little dogs that followed her everywhere; her compassion for listening (out of the blue) to strangers’ troubles, in such a way that they felt healed. People were naturally, spontaneously drawn to confide in her, I was told. I knew; she listened to me too, although I was only small.

I didn’t have her long, but she was a light to me – a gentle light yet strong, shining continually over all my life.

They said she thought herself ugly. Laughable! Of all people in the whole world, she was the most radiantly beautiful.

Written (in exactly 369 words excluding title) for Weekly Scribblings #49 at Poets and Storytellers United: my own prompt where I invite people to write something – anything – purposefully using one particular letter repeatedly. My letter here, of course, is L. I didn't have any idea beforehand of how it might impact the writing – and I'm not sure I have now, though I hope it might lend a softness. Once I knew what, or rather who, I wanted to write about (not the first time I've written of her) I picked that letter because it starts the word Love.

The Blurring of the Days

The Blurring of the Days

To Bill

Each night the clicking comes
of the small gecko on the wall
outside my front door. I hear it
as friendly and comforting. A mark
of the progress of my day, the hours
of my day, each day the same
sound at the same awaited time.

It takes me back to those days in Bali
with the loud clack of the huge
geckos in walls of straw,
strange yet amusing, reliable
backdrop to steamy nights …
at the same time as it grounds me
here and now. How the days slip by! 

Written for Weekly Scribblings #48: Words of an Unprecedented Year, at Poets and Storytellers United. One of the words is Blursday, for days indistinguishable from each other. I have experienced some of this during the pandemic isolation – but that gecko, one of the things that gives my days sameness, took me somewhere else, to a different kind of blurring which is perhaps more common as we age.

Now I See You, Now I Don’t

 Now I See You, Now I Don’t

A Reflection

I used to see Andrew around quite a lot after he died, walking along the streets of our town, never near enough to tap his shoulder so he would turn and smile at me ... so we’d fall into each other’s arms….

I knew of course it was never really him, just someone who, for a moment, looked like him. Amazing how many short, slightly stocky, white-haired blokes there were around our streets in those days – for the first few years.

It doesn’t seem to happen any more. It’s been eight years now, after all. How is that possible? It’s so ‘only yesterday’! I can summon up, fresh and vivid, any and all details of our lives together; of him. Sometimes I like to dwell on those memories, play with them. We had some very nice times. All our times were good even when they weren’t, by virtue of being together.

I found, accidentally, a trick to ease missing Selene, my little cat who died early last year (nearly 21 months ago). I have a teddy bear collection. I was thinking I should cull them, and had the smallish dark brown one in my hand to put near the door, ready to take to the op shop for some parent or grandparent to find. 

Something happened on the way – maybe the phone rang – and I popped him down in the second armchair instead, the one I don’t sit in. It’s the one Selene used to occupy, next to mine, while I watched TV in the evenings. Next time I went past, this little dark furry shape gave me, for a moment, the illusion that she was there in her accustomed place. It continues to do so. I like it. That bear’s not going to the op shop after all.

I know all the time, even as I experience it, that this is an illusion – a comforting one. But when I used to see Andrew walking our streets, for a quick moment I believed it real. Every time. Then there was the pang of realisation, loss all over again.

Strange, the ways of grief – and of dealing with grief. No two journeys, even the one person’s, ever exactly the same.

Sharing with Writers' Pantry #48 at Poets and Storytellers United 

(369 words exactly)

My Father Gave Me Gardens

My Father Gave Me Gardens

I see him squatting, fingers in the dirt, 

one hand holding a small trowel, 

paused to look up at me, smiling –

even in our unhappiest times,

with Wicked Stepmother / castrating wife,

when it became his escape.

But also when he was young 

and I was little, and Mum was 

up in the house cooking,

waving from the window,

and the sun shone

on our broad back yard….

He never got me to like

grubs and soil and sheer hard work,

but it’s due to my Dad that I love

hardy, bright red geraniums,

and wide round orange-yellow

calendula flowers we mis-called marigolds.

Because of him I know

that whether rhododendrons

bloom pink or blue depends

on acid or alkaline soil, 

that earthworms are essential,

pretty white cabbage moths a pest.

I learned the look and smell

of rosemary: small white flowers, 

dark green leaves. ‘Rosemary means 

remembrance’ he said (long before 

I encountered Ophelia). So I knew 

I was born gifted with memory.

I still know the long-ago taste

of tiny, fresh-picked strawberries.

I remember the hum of bees

thick around a bush in summer,

the feel of my bare feet on grass,

and what time of day to water.

Thanks to him, I don’t weed away 

dandelions, I cherish them; 

I relish the tangy scent

of the shrub I’m named for;

and every place I live, I grow

abundant red geraniums.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #47: Meme Madness at Poets and Storytellers United. We're invited to write about things we learned to love through loving someone else who loved them.

Regression

Regression

As we get to the end of 2020,

breathing carefully, not too

close to other breathers

(depends if they’re family, and

especially on whether we share

family domicile or not) we also

grow used to the slower pace.

How refreshing to find ourselves

imperceptibly freed, little by little –

joking about it, some of us; others

kissing their hands to friends online,

laughing over twitter or Insta or fb: a-

mused by the realisation that (surprise!)

now we are no longer frantic, 

or driven by peer pressure, to do

petty mindless things that used to

quicken our pulses – while stopping our

reflective abilities, our in-the-moment

serene or fervent intake of this life

that we came here to experience, not 

uselessly deflect, avoid, fail to notice.

Verily, we’ve been given a reprieve;

we can return to an older, gentler way. 

Yes! Let’s celebrate this going-backward

zest, this quiet zing, this new chance!

Written for my own prompt: Let's Celebrate, for Weekly Scribblings #46 at Poets and Storytellers United.

Short Words for the Pandemic

Short Words for the Pandemic

Only yesterday I remarked,
‘I don’t know anyone
who’s had COVID.’ Now I do.
Sweet, bright soul went to sleep
last night and never woke.

23/10/2020

living alone

seven years widowed –

what iso stress? *

*********

law: mask not scarf –

ear loops keep ripping out

my hearing aids

*********

 

first COVID death

of someone I knew –

it becomes real

25/10/2020

trick or treat –

wash the candy

don’t breathe in

*********

trick or treat –

one at a time please

to the door

28/10/2020

* In Australia 'iso' has become a common abbreviation for the pandemic-induced isolation – which reputedly causes people all sorts of stress.

Linking to Writers' Pantry #46 at Poets and Storytellers United, where Rommy is playing catch-up. So I'm catching you up with the last of my October poems here.

This Moment Pictured

At Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #45 Magaly invites us to be inspired by one or more of these three pictures:

"Beautiful YOU are" by Magic Love Crow

"Delightful Donkey" by Gina Morley

"Carnival Dreams" by Shelle Kennedy

(I chose them all.)

This Moment Pictured

The great bird is soaring

in blazing splendour,

lifting our gaze away

from the small donkey 

left standing exposed – 

which once looked so cute,

with the crown on his head

and the cross displayed on 

his proud brow, but now 

seems only foolish.

And we do gaze,

with eyes that have seen 

much trouble, but 

are wide open because of 

all we could not 

go on looking away from.

We open our hearts –

revived, hopeful, triumphant –

and hold them high 

like flags.

Notes from the Log of the SS Enterprise?

Notes from the Log of the SS Enterprise?

The eye of calm is roughly surrounded.

High clouds show up brightly

clear or obscured by stark mechanics,

ragged intensity rapidly intensifying.

Prone to fluctuations,

large eyes become sustained.

Thunderstorms form and gather.

Rainbands start rotating, updrafts drop.

Outside the forming eye,

pushing air flows inward to descend.

Many aspects remain a mystery.

A ring ejects excess air.

A clear simple drop in speed –

rising and sinking columns of air

may strengthen and organize, 

"choked" partially, quickly abandoned.

The moat between eyeballs 

changes the distance. Filamentation zones

near any vortex are pronounced strong. 

Visible rotational suction may be else.

Unusual cyclones remain stationary.

Storm phenomena spawn 

individual convective cells.

Tornadic landfall can allow circulations.

It is a curve with height, resembling 

a dome smallest at the bottom.

An absent maximum, typically,

wavelengths from space.

An aircraft flying is a common mistake,

especially to exit the violent opposite.

Polar lows are relatively warm.

Water can feature deep winds.

At the boundary of different

are extratropical classic severe clouds.

Low systems can be very hazardous.

The fastest winds are multiple.

All are theorised to have doppler velocity.

Observations on the south pole of Saturn

display tens of kilometers high spacecraft:

locked, clearly defined, not previously seen.

On any planet, observe a great red spot, 

very large, on both poles. The mission: 

to have a dipole eye structure. See also 

portal, radius, maximum wind. Surge!

Written for Weekly Scribblings #44: Eye of the Hurricane at Poets and Storytellers United. 

Uninspired, I tried an erasure poem taken from the Wikipedia article Eye (cyclone). (Hurricane, cyclone and typhoon are all words for the same kind of tropical storm, called different names in different places.) I had fun arriving at a lot of scientific-sounding pretentious nonsense, then the mention of Saturn gave me a different perspective as to what I had actually found.

Image: Public Domain. 
Hurricane Isabel as seen from the International Space Station showing a well-defined eye at the center of the storm. Courtesy of Mike Trenchard, Earth Sciences & Image Analysis Laboratory, NASA Johnson Space Center. From his vantage point high above the Earth in the International Space Station, Astronaut Ed Lu captured this broad view of Hurricane Isabel. The image, ISS007-E-14750, was taken with a 50 mm lens on a digital camera.

My Breasts

My Breasts

I no longer want

the high, jutting breasts 

of adolescence.

I like the hang 

of these breasts now,

the convex under-curve

the concave upper,

perfectly matched:

oh beautiful half-moon.

If the whim takes me

they can sit on my palms,

a perfect fit.

I don’t pull on them

as a man or a baby might;

I simply hold, stroke gently.

I make no demands

of my elderly, 

still-smooth breasts.

I used to think them

wrong, too small. Now

they comfort me.

 

 

Written in November 2020. Sharing in January 2021 with Poets and Storytellers United's #Writers' Pantry #53.

Poem for Beltane Night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem for Beltane Night

This Beltane is marked by storms.

Much later, all quieted, I go out

to find the full moon high behind trees –

blue moon this month – and next to her,

clear, close as a lover, Mars.

This night I have no lover of my own 

to help me celebrate. Even the cats are all gone

who used to come with me at midnight

into the circle of my patch of earth, my garden 

and my sacred trees, to greet the moon.

Yet the whole earth pulses with love

in this time of alive silence: a throb beyond

our ears to hear, yet not beyond our feeling.

The street, empty of people, is full 

of presences co-existing, just out of sight.

They come in peace. I greet them so.

Somewhere else, there is fighting,

there is pain, there is death, there is grief.

Tomorrow I may have to face them,

those conditions, but tonight –

I stand in love. My heart embraces the Universe 

as my hand blows a kiss to the moon.

Inside, I pour a nip of ginger wine.

I write a poem for Beltane. (Poetry as fertility.)

Pieces of dark chocolate melt in my mouth.

 

Photo © Roxanne Robins 2020, used with permission (for this use only).

 

Sharing with Writers' Pantry #44 at Poets and Storytellers United.

Worried Clocks Carry the Dream

Worried Clocks Carry the Dream

Worried clocks carry the dream within my body,

my body defiant, disbelieving the dream –

the dream someone else’s possibility, ending you.

You ask that person: Be the mother that is under, a gift. 

A gift! Accept!

Accept our life start, that is unavoidable –

unavoidably working towards wanting,

wanting a little window into connection, focus.

Focus on the fullness to be true; further open.

Further open a kind allow.

Allow whispering; process challenge.

Challenge this insight happening,

happening into the pleasure.

Pleasure sending sensations, wonder, tangled endings.

Tangled endings just beautiful vibrations.

Vibrations, harnessing, feel like the ocean –

the ocean to bring. Begin!

Begin with their beauty.

I wrote this for my own prompt, Weekly Scribblings #43: Found Poems and Erasures, at Poets and Storytellers United. I am quite good at other kinds of found poems, not so good at erasures, so I thought that's what I should try. Hmmm, perhaps not!  I really don't think I have the knack. (But then, I admit I didn't spend a serious amount of time on it. I didn't even actually erase the text surrounding the words I chose.) I only got it to make some kind of almost-sense by repeating the one or two words at the end of every line as the beginning of the next line. Below are the source materials: pages from a give-away New Agey magazine which is basically advertising various practitioners. The first attempt didn't take me very far, so I turned to another page and did some more.

Interestingly enough, what this poem does is allow me a window into my own subconscious. Recently I've been thinking about my relationship with my mother – it was her birthday the other day – wishing it had been easier, closer. As a child, I thought her very beautiful but didn't find her warm and cuddly. I felt she was always trying to make me conform, be something I wasn't. I've come to think I may have misunderstood her, and wish I could go back and make it all different. I can find these threads in the poem, so one day I might, if I choose, rewrite it to be more readily understandable to others.