Dreamer Rearmed

Dreamer Rearmed

Who is it peels the sleep from my eyes?

What slid the drowse down off my lids?

A gentle pat to tap me awake,

and I feel that other world vanish, flee.

Oh, dear dreams I can no longer read!

They race away in spite of all my care.

Frail as a trampled reed, swifter than deer,

their arcs of light fade to a shadowy scar.

To file the wild unknown inside ordinary life

I never aspired; this is despair.

                          ************

Reality will alter, but how much later?

Meanwhile I live this side of the veil.

Sad and silent, I learn to listen,

to rediscover the recent centre.

Not a naiver leap back into the ravine —

feet on the ground, I can still begin being.

I search the arts for my guiding star,

ward off conformity by starting to draw.

Or share visions in words, for any who hears.

A siren song, the dream within me is risen!



In Weekly Scribblings #21 at Poets and Storytellers United, Magaly invites us to play with anagrams. I have matching pairs in every line of this poem and also the title. Way to go with the mixed metaphors, lol! Making some kind of coherent narrative was challenging, and fun.

As sunset hovers, or sunrise

The feeling of light

is rose and bone —

the contradictions 

at that juncture, that

tipping point where

as sunset hovers, or sunrise

I solidify down into night

reaching for home, 

boundaries ... or else lift

evanescent as petals or

the seductive flight of scent.

Another in the elevensies form where middle line is also title – invented by Kit Kelen based on input by Kerry Shying. See my detailed notes here.

Light that gives life, hope, joy, renewal

Dawn makes me cry, the light falling 

over the fence, the same time as it rises

up the sky, spreading out wider, soon

in all directions, entering all places,

becoming one with everything, the sun

light that gives life, hope, joy, renewal

one with the earth it covers and fills —

and I think how I am empty, empty of 

purpose, of meaning, of reason to be.

Finally I realise: I am empty of you, now, 
always, no matter how many sunrises.

This is in the ‘elevensies’ form pioneered by Australian poet Kerri Shying, who hopes others will adopt it too. In her book Knitting Mangrove Roots, we’re told that it ‘was invented spontaneously in conversation between Kerri and Kit Kelen, who noticed that this was how things were tending for her, and that 'an eleven liner could become a respectable form in its own right: a form any poet might attempt. Five lines either side and the middle line’s the title, that’s all there is to it.’

Having some acquaintance with Kerri through poetry projects we’ve both been involved in, and having recently heard her read some elevensies at a Zoom event, I bought two recent books of hers which showcase the form — Elevensies and the afore-mentioned Knitting Mangrove Roots  — and she urged me to try the form myself. At first I thought I would need to ape both her personal poetic style and her unique way with titles, but then I realised I only needed the latter. I also chose to use longish lines as she often (but not always) does. Having given it a go, I now perceive that I could use much shorter lines and more conventional titles if I liked. I’ll probably give that a try too. However I love the idea of getting away from ‘conventional titles’ even so (grin). Btw no-one has said the poem should work in sequence if the title line were removed from the centre, but that's an additional rule I have made up for myself when working in this form.

Aug 30, 2020 Sharing at Writers Pantry #35 at Poets and Storytellers United. 

My Brother Paints

My Brother Paints

Christina on Gabriel and Lizzie

My brother paints his beauteous wife

in every tale he brings to life:

her long neck, patrician nose,

her lean limbs in langorous pose,

the soulful, melancholy eyes

in distant gaze of mute surmise;

her face and form, over and over ...

his muse and pupil, spouse and lover.

There are other loves and models, yes,

but all portrayed with her impress.

He and his friends are rapturous

at just one kind of loveliness –

flowing robes and flowing hair,

a static, halted, waiting air,

the face, upraised or else cast down,

yet innocent of smile or frown.

In paint or life, the artist’s hand

must awaken her – gift or demand?

Her pallid flesh can’t stir or strive
until he moves to bring it alive.

Or so his images suggest.

In truth, she early went to rest:

his turbulent Elizabeth

idealised: passive, mute in death.

 

Written for Weekly Scribblings #20: Undoubtedly Rossetti at Poets and Storytellers United. We were asked to find inspiration in the poems of Christina Rossetti or the paintings of her brother, pre-Raphaelite artist and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti, known as Gabriel in the family – whose wife Elizabeth Siddall, herself an important artist and noted poet, was his chief model until her untimely death at the age of 33. 

Pre-Raphaelite paintings often represented characters from myth, legend and literature. This image, used according to Fair Use, is Rossetti's 'Beata Beatrix', painted after her death from drawings of Elizabeth, and referencing the Italian poet Dante Alighieri's idealised love for Beatrice. (Rossetti had a lifelong interest in Alighieri, whom he was named after.) 

It is known that Christina Rossetti had issues with the pre-Raphaelite portrayals of women. 

This piece is inspired by the work of both Rossettis.Though I don't think I approach the lilting beauty of Christina's verse, I hope the rhyming and language are reminiscent.

Little White Lie

Little White Lie

I will tell you a lie, to be kind —

which, if you guess, being smart,

you will kindly pretend to believe.

Our smiles will mask the inner

knowledge of truth, of difference,

while small, slimy questions begin.

Worms that travel in layers of dirt  

below the sunlit surface of the mind.

Of both our minds, yours and mine.

What else is untrue? What else unsaid?

What do we risk unearthing if we dig?

Are there horrors, corpses, buried deep?

And so we start to make a little distance.

Nothing serious, of course. Intimacy
may require truth; we prefer comfort.

Strange how the inner unease, the need

to keep the (slight, thin) mask in place,  

undermines comfort; the mask thickens.

                       ************

What is the cost of a lie? That depends 

on who you’re lying to. Best not do it 
to someone you love, even to be kind.

And best not lie to yourself. Otherwise

you risk forgetting who you really are

as the lie takes hold, assumes life.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #19: Lie to Me at Poets and Storytellers United.

On the Night of the Scorpio Full Moon

On the Night of the Scorpio Full Moon

On the night of the Scorpio Supermoon, 
Sarah posts to facebook a large, moody photo
(taken by her Scorpio man) of that orb of light
surrounded by clouds. I, another child of Scorpio,
go out at midnight into my small back yard,
with the wand Letitia made for me –

and made it beautiful, filled with love and joy.

My neighbour over the back fence

is playing some jazzy rock that I like

with lots of high-pitched, screamy sax

and that strong beat of the heart.

He’s listening in his living-room;

he doesn’t know that I’m out here

with the moon directly above.

I almost lose my footing, gazing 

straight up, throwing my head back,

arms wide, drawing down the light.

Infused with new strength, I send it

out as healing for the world, and for

particular individuals I love. Then I turn

in a circle, farewelling the Guardians.

Earlier today, online, by video, I met

with Judith, Narelle and Angie, to write –

to talk and laugh and write. Tomorrow I’ll meet
other Sarah, Kerry, Robbie and Bri for the same.

I am 80. What else should I do with my days 

and my alive, embracing nights? What else 
but make poetry and magic? Magic and poetry!

Photo © Simon Stokes 2020

Bonding with a Stranger

Bonding with a Stranger

I waited until the young woman delivering my groceries was back at the bottom of my front steps, a safe distance away, before opening my door to call out a thank you. 

‘It’s a great help,’ I said. Telling me she was glad, she looked up with a smile, then surprised me by bringing her hands together and bowing her head as she said,

‘Merry meet.’ 

Taken aback, I stammered out the same. She smiled more widely.

‘Happy Halloween!’ (which it was, in this Hemisphere, and even the exact rather than the official date). ‘Blessed be.’

I returned the greeting more confidently this time, but was still puzzled.

‘So how do you know this about me?’

‘You’re wearing the pentacle.’ With an even broader grin: ‘You can’t hide from your people.’ 

‘Oh of course,’ I said, my hand going to my throat.

I wear it all the time, even in bed, where I shorten the adjustable cord so it can’t get tangled while I sleep. The delivery was early, I was still in my pyjamas, which revealed the silver pendant at my neck – so much part of me I forget it’s there; and not tucked under a t-shirt, hidden, as it sometimes is. 

‘I’m very glad to meet my people,’ I said, smiling back.

She left with a cheery wave.

‘See you next time.’

‘I hope so.’

a greeting

eases isolation

we connect

Pentacle: a 5-pointed star (pentagram) within a circle; often worn by Pagans. Frequently used to represent the element of Earth, it can also be seen to represent all the elements.

I'm sharing this piece, a couple of months after the event, with Writers' Pantry #27: We're Halfway There! at Poets and Storytellers United.

Romance Through COVID-19

Romance Through COVID-19

Now I can only dream of you.

Kisses are not allowed. 

We can’t even be within 

touching distance. This 

may go on for months. Alone, 

isolated, I drift in dream-space.

We whirl away down empty streets,

receding rapidly further from each other.

Then I turn a corner and find myself 

face to face with you again, up close.

Our masks become roses; our lips meet

softly; we refrain from breathing....














 



Written for Weekly Scribblings #18: Art (and turmoil, it seems) Begets Art at Poets and Storytellers United, where we are invited to respond to pandemic-inspired street art.

Heat Freak (Cold Phobic)

Heat Freak

(Cold Phobic)

I was born into a cold climate, to a young mother who was ordered by child care experts not to pick me up when I cried — a ruling for all babies then. (Much later, much too late, she told me she cried too. She longed to take me in her arms but didn’t dare. Much too much later, I realised it damaged her too.) My mind doesn't remember the horror of crying for help and no help coming – but my body does.

No wonder I was always cold, needing the simulated hug of a woollen cardigan, a thick coat, the comfort of a hot bath, the embrace of summer sun. Finally encountering the tropics was bliss.

Choice and circumstance, mixed, brought me to live in the sub-tropics. Even here, in the brief, mild winter, I need my doona and fluffy blankets, I need the heater on all night. Unless I’m warm, I can’t sleep. 

I wake in the cold dark, utterly demoralised: crying, shivering, incoherent, believing I’ll never get warm again. I stumble out of bed disoriented, blindly seeking rescue: groping around, confused, lost, helpless, a terrified child. 

There have been men who held me in those moments, warmed me in their arms, found me extra blankets, murmured to me as if I was a child, calmed me, brought me back to my adult self. The essential is warmth.

Now there is no-one. I must keep me warm. I make very certain of it. An extra blanket folded across the foot of the bed in case the temperature drops. Three shawls kept in my car — one black, one white, one mauve, to match whatever I’m wearing. 

My best friend, conversely, can’t sleep unless she’s cool. My firstborn prefers winter to summer. Incomprehensible! Two of the people I’m closest to, yet so different from me in that respect. Evidently love doesn’t depend on being alike in every way.

Mum and I had a strained relationship, yearning for more but unable to reach each other. She did love me, I eventually realised. Too late, I eventually realised I loved her too. But we never really bonded. She was never a cuddly mother. 

I always hugged my kids — a lot.


Short prose of exactly 369 words, excluding title and sub-title.

I read this on Poets Out Loud via Zoom tonight (21 May 2020) as we were allowed to include stories – and was beyond delighted when someone described it in chat as 'beautiful poetic prose'.

In the Blackness

In the Blackness

Over the sea

night settles, breathes.

The vast dark,

womb-like, hushes.

Black rocks glisten.

I become other.

Invisibility calms me,

wraps me: soft

cloak / sheltering cavern –

paradoxically allowing nakedness.

My skin tingles,

more highly alive,

every cell awake, 

every follicle listening, 

deeply alert, thrumming.

Night is my

home, the sea

my mother, and

the merging sky

my safe blanket.

Yet sky and 

sea are also

doors, through which

I find light:

stars, deep crystals.



Sharing with Writers' Pantry #19 at Poets and Storytellers United.

Photo by Joakim Honkasalo on Unsplash

Reminiscing

Reminiscing
For Chris Mansell

I listen to my old friend,

whose book launch was cancelled

because of The Virus,

reading her poetry online.

Her voice sounds so young,

I think, and remember 

the many times in the past 

when I heard that young voice 

reading from stages – 

and sessions sitting around 

on living room floors, six of us,

in Melbourne or Sydney, or 

Adelaide at the Festival once, 

when that was the only Festival.

All those couples broken up later,

two husbands now dead, and

the third woman disappeared

somewhere in Canberra 

into a life more private ...

and still we are making poems

and putting them in books,

and reading them aloud, just as if

a poet really was a thing to be …

along our long lifetimes.


For the reading referred to, see (and listen) here.

This is truth rather than fact – though there's a lot of fact too. There are minor inaccuracies, in that I've collapsed some details together in poetic licence.

For the record (if any historians are interested, lol):

Chris and I were never actually at the same Adelaide Festival, but others of that group of friends were there together.

 The original three couples were Rosemary and Bill Nissen of Melbourne, Susan Hampton and Andrew McDonald, Chris Mansell and Dane Thwaites, all living in Sydney then – five poets, and a supporter (Bill) so committed that he later served a year as National Secretary of the Poets Union of Australia. I never actually met Dane in person (due to his work schedule if I remember rightly) though he was included, albeit at one remove, in our discussions about poetry, publishing, and Union business. 

I also never met Chris's late husband, though heard a lot about him from the time their relationship began. She points out that she and I actually have three dead husbands between us; but my last husband, Andrew Wade, came into my life a very long time after these events, so didn't seem to belong in this poem.

By 'a life more private' I don't mean to suggest that Susan is not still creating and publishing poetry too. The closest friendships in that early period were between we three women (and Bill, to whom I was then pretty much joined at the hip) and the final lines of the poem can be taken to include her. 

Hermit

Hermit

I line my cave

with books, poems

(to read and to write)

television dramas, 

crafts (both magical 

and just plain woolly)

and interesting food.  

It’s good here, living

self-sufficiently. I’m 

not panting to emerge,

to embrace the world 

and the people. Here

I am free; no-one 
has expectations.

Written during self-isolation in the first months of the pandemic.

Sharing in Writers' Pantry #49 at Poets and Storytellers United.