The Great Silence

The Great Silence

This street of ageing neighbours 

is empty at the best of times. However –

The supermarket delivers (I order

online) the pharmacy too; my doctor 
is available to consult by phone.

The TV news keeps me abreast
of events; Netflix entertains me.

Friends text, or video chat;

poetry readings happen on Zoom;

the family communes by Facetime.

Altogether my life is little changed.

Until the 5G towers go down! 

Some people are glad, but for me

high risk, isolated, living alone …

now I am truly on my own.


No it's not true; they didn't go down. But for Day 30 of April 2020 at 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are are asked to imagine being out of communication with the rest of humanity. In pandemic lockdown, it's not hard to imagine just one more thing that could bring it about. (The poem is supposed to be the person's last words to the world. Given my scenario, perhaps these would have been written in a journal.)

Found poems from 'apostrophe'.

Found Poems from 'apostrophe'

Looking at the blog 'apostrophe', poetry by online friend 'Ellecee', I suddenly perceived that her archived list of titles made a series of 'found' micropoems. With her permission, here are those I perceived, with capital letters (traditional for titles) changed to lower case. (The poem I was reading when I noticed this is about taking a hot shower. I thought my first piece here was another way to describe that, and felt it needed a title of its own. It's not meant as a title for the whole series.)

Hot Shower

affusion

on my own

thermals

cabined

***

decisions

a parable

the plan

***

gift

delayed

warmth
remains

***

tales out of school
invisible 

voices

***

reflection
so be it

***

oblivious
fertility

tears laid waste

***

lament

annihilation
concurrent

***

a rake

my can’t

***

this Spring
streets
entrances

(Some work better than others. I wasn't going to use them all, but in the end I did, if only to show the glorious serendipity. I like best #3, #4 and #9.)

To be shared via Writers' Pantry #18 at Poets and Storytellers United. 

That does not come to an end …

That does not come to an end …

Soft light is

widening your 

eyes; don’t go until

I tell you one more

time how much those

eyes, their quickening

light, inspire me: so

wide, so luminously 

regarding me – as if

I am suddenly golden in 

your brightened sight, as

the last flare of sunset maybe, or

like new Spring flowers (let’s

say daffodils, or perhaps

buttercups) which I know you

would look for in your Northern

Hemisphere now … so tell me, do

you miss it badly, or could you

refrain from return, could

staying here with me become

a lasting light, a new vision, say,

oh say!

Written for Weekly Scribblings #17 at Poets and Storytellers United, where Sanaa invites us to use enjambment, i.e. 'a thought or sense, phrase or clause, in a line of poetry that does not come to an end at the line break, but moves over to the next line'.

Dear readers, this poem is not autobiographical! I was playing around to see if I could enjamb every line in a way that was not just chopped-up prose but poetically necessary, or at least effective ... and somehow it led to my doing a one-sentence poem, a form which I'm particularly fond of. I had fun. I hope you think it worked.

Breathless

Breathless

Tense but expectant

that moment before

lift-off, 

the thrill before the thrill

(pause

clench

gather –

almost burst)

just before you detach, 

weightless, unbound, 

expanded, 
and soar.

Written for April 2020 Day 29 at 'imaginary garden with real toads': This Is (Almost) The End, where we are invited to write of the moment before an ending; and  for #aprilwitchcraft Day 29 on Instagram: Flight (to accompany the photo).

(Perhaps this reads more like the moment before a beginning? Depends. The witch's broom might be a clue.)

A Good Man

A Good Man 

Gregory as Atticus 

Just what a girl wants in a father:

strong and handsome, wise and kind,

taking the time to talk and listen,

a man of truth and principle ...

just as the watching women want

in fantasy lover or real husband.

(It’s OK that he was troubled 

along the way — it made him real.)

Well done, to choose an actor 

who was, on the evidence, decent 

by and large, feet not thickly clay. 

The good words in that deep voice

continue to resonate. We can believe

in him and them. (Was it privately heavy,

the mantle of the fictional hero? Word is

he ended up a loved, happy grandpa.)


Written for Day 28 of April 2020 at 'imaginary garden with real toads': Harper Lee. We are asked to write 'on a theme, quote, character or personal experience related to To Kill a Mockingbird, in any form you choose'.

Tea from the Heart

Tea from the Heart

When you serve tea to your guests, you should simply serve tea from your heart, and think about nothing more. – Sen No Rikyu

My heart has a love

of roses, and of the sea.

This tea will be rich,

fragrant, sparkling,

with a deep colour.

My heart holds

trees and mountains:

the taste and aroma

of this tea will have you

breathe deep, gaze upward.

My heart is a place

of passion and freedom.

Are you sure you can 

stomach this tea?

It’s not for weaklings.

(Sorry, Sen No Rikyu, it seems I did need to do a bit of thinking, to ensure the wellbeing of my guests!)

This is the prompt for April 202, Day 27 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

The Moment of Change

The Moment of Change

‘The moment of change is the only poem’ — Adrienne Rich

But how do you pick the moment of change? 

Was it when the animal got infected?

When someone ate the infected animal?

When a cough left droplets to infect others?

When the doctor’s warning was ignored?

When travellers took the virus around the world?

When deaths climbed rapidly to thousands? 

When we all went into lockdown? When economies 

faltered: jobs, businesses, homes, incomes lost?

Or was it long ago, when we created planes? Boats?

Or earlier, when we started killing and eating animals?

Well, we always did that — so that puts 

the moment of change at the very, very beginning.

And perhaps that's true. Is change not, in fact,
a moment, but a continuum, a line, a progression? 

Not the only poem, but, as someone else said,

the only constant? And if so, does that make

the whole of history one long, ever-fluctuating poem?

It may be so. Or was the real moment of real change

after we stopped clogging the streets? Did it happen

when the first wallabies ventured into Australian towns,

or dolphins up the Venetian canals? When the world 

largely went quiet, and the creatures, hearing

that lack of mechanical roar and whine and clatter,

collectively waited, then dared hope? Was it 
the first instant one animal looked up — or a bird down — 

paused, and took a new, full, uncluttered breath?

Or is even that too soon to count? How shall we

truly be renewed? It’s only change if it lasts.

So can we, shall we program change —

not by default this time, but deliberately? What

would it take to make this strange new world

lasting? How can we catch it, hold it, stretch

this moment into the new future? Will we find 

the courage? Can those who govern us be so bold?

God, may I witness that moment, write that poem! 

Written in response to Reboot, Rewind, Recycle, Rebirth, Day 26 of April 2020 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Leave It Stand

Please read first:

For April 2020, Day 25 at 'imaginary garden with real toads', we are asked to be inspired by Willard Asylum, New York, and the suitcases of patients' belongings left behind after it closed; and to write in the voice of someone 'full of personal emotion, sentiment, longing, confusion…' For the poignant images of suitcases and contents, see here.

I was captured by the fragment of a handwritten letter or note in one suitcase (on lined, yellow paper) – and how, although the first words were easy to decipher, the rest, and even the signature, were open to interpretation. 

This is not exactly a found poem; I've tampered with it a bit too much for that. Some of my variant verses could well be possible renditions of the original; with others I've taken a little licence to extend the concepts. I intend it as a sort of progression, albeit a confused one.

(Also shared at Poets and Storytellers United's Writers' Pantry #17.)

Leave it stand

leave it stand the

way it is until

I see the moon

about them

Jo

leave it stand the

way it is until

I see the moor.

o bent slam

J.

leave it stand the

way it is untild

I see the mess

about slam

‘Jo’

leave it stand the

way it is untold

I saw their moss

o burst slow

‘J.’

Leave it staid tho
may it is untile

I see this mess

about slim

'I'

leave it stand the

way it is untied

I saw the moor.

abrupt slam

I.

Home

Home

The sky, the sunlight, 

the water, the green earth — 

I live and move and breathe 

in the midst of this natural wonder

called the Mt Warning Caldera:

vast, ancient, fertile bowl

ringed by mountains and ocean,

surrounding that great central peak

where the light of dawn first touches 

my island continent: Australia.

I grew on a tinier island, southernmost

point of this land, almost a secret,

where lakes and prehistoric forests,

mountains and pristine coast,

still require trek or pilgrimage

from the most determined traveller

to arrive in unpeopled wilderness, struck 

by such magnificence it dwarfs you;

you want to bow down (perhaps you do)

thanking God, or Fate, or the Universe.

Later I crossed the Strait, found at length 

a treed suburb in a city by the sea, 

good place for raising children,

messing about in boats and libraries —

a base from which to travel

up the leafy, happy east coast, 

north to the steamy tropics, west

to a wilder ocean, or into the central desert
(full of flowers and birds that year, after rain)
with its one giant monolith.

This is a wondrous country! The first people

on earth lived here (don’t believe 
those tales that we began in Africa; here 

the Original People know better: I’ve studied 

their lore of the stars) and they still live 

here today — along with many others, 

arriving for conquest maybe; staying for love

of green earth or wide brown land (it's A Big

Country) of sparkling water, abundant sunshine,

and a quality of light seen only in this sky.


Written in response to April 2020, Day 24: Natural Wonders, at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. I intended to write only about the area where I now live, but couldn't stop until I'd included the whole country! I thought of calling it 'Sacred Land' – but aren't they all? The Earth is sacred; I wish that was more widely understood.


Notes: 

A Big Country was a much-loved, long-running (1968-1991) TV documentary exploring Australian rural life.

Artists (and others) have remarked on the wonderful quality of the light in Australia, even in winter, found nowhere else.

Stella Whieldon on Origine' Cultural Star Lore.

Image: Fair Use.

Regarding the Bard

Regarding the Bard

I like to think Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare.

Genius alights where it will, oblivious of rank

or even education. In fact, you can probably bet,

wherever it lands will be somehow ‘unsuitable’.

He was good at observing human foibles –

and, being of fairly humble condition, most likely

observed them first in himself, or at least

the latent possibilities. After all, haven’t we all

ached with Romeo’s idealised teenage lust,

or Miranda’s naive romantic dreams?

Who has not sometimes plotted revenge,

envied power, longed to live free in a forest?

Or been torn apart by bossy parents and elders

like poor old Hamlet – who really just wanted

to get back to Uni., have a good time, and be

damned to duty. Shakespeare wrote it down.

And he knew he had to make it entertaining,

so he put in bawdy jokes, lots of blood and gore,

and all sorts of farcical mistakes and mishaps.

He had a theatre to run and players to pay.

He knew how to twang on the heartstrings:

how to make ‘em laugh and make ‘em cry

with words, with spectacle, with stories.

For his own heart, look elsewhere.

In the plays he will show you yourself; as well as

your family, friends, enemies, lovers. Also, disguised,

the bosses, rich and powerful, who lord it over you. 

(Fools, knaves, or heroes; deal with what you get.)

But look to the sonnets, the personal thoughts, 

the inner reflections and questionings, 

lone confessionals of desire, love, pain ...

if you seek to meet the true Will Shakespeare.

Written for April 2020, Day 23: The Bard at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

In Praise of the Dandelion

In Praise of the Dandelion

"A fresh and vigorous weed, always renewed and renewing, it will cut 

its wondrous way through rubbish and rubble." William Jay Smith

I love the happy dandelion.

I loved it as a child,

blowing seeds for wishes;

and today I love 

the cheerful yellow faces

all over my lawn.

I hate to have them mown –

only I can’t let the grass

grow long and fill with peril

(snakes or mosquitos).

Why can’t they bloom, welcome, 

in my garden beds instead?

My Dad used to like

cooking and eating the leaves.

Healthy! But to me 

their tang was strong, too bitter.

I’d rather leave them

to feed the bees.

They grow alongside 

clover and daisies:

companionable, mingling.

They have a merriment

and yes, a toughness.

Also they always say Spring.

Image from Pexels: CC0 License Free for personal and commercial use. No attribution required.

In April 2o20, Day 22 at 'imaginary garden with real toads', the archived prompt, Poets of April, asks us to be inspired by lines from one of several poets born in this month.

It's serendipitous that this date is Earth Day, and I'm not only celebrating dandelions but also deciding to nourish bees.