Home for me must have a cat.
And for that cat – there have been
many, each in turn, in their time,
the most important in the world –
for that cat, I say, my home must be
their home, their own, with every
comfort, all safety, each need met,
where they are always loved, and where
they know they are free to be loving.
Written for Friday Writings #96 at Poets and Storytellers United: What, for you, conjures up Home?
It goes staccato now –
when I bend to the past,
see the miles covered.
I’d like a softer flow,
lento or legato.
Prompted simultaneously by Friday Writings #95 at Poets and Storytellers United, where Rommy invites us to be inspired by the idea of losing track of time, and by Grace at dVerse introducing us to the Flamenca or Seguidilla Gitana form.
As it has become difficult to access the instructions for this form, I post them here:
Boomerang Metaphors (invented by Hannah Gosselin)
* Create three, “This poem is a ____,” statements.
* Support each statement in separate stanzas, (one can choose the length of the supporting stanzas and whether or not to rhyme or employ free verse).
* Restate the statement that’s being supported in the last line of these supporting stanzas, (as mini boomerang metaphor refrains).
* Then name the list of three, “This poem is a _____,” statements again as a boomerang metaphors closing refrain.
Note: One may choose to state the closing refrain slightly morphed but mostly the same. As it seems, words that go out into the world do tend to come back touched – slightly transformed.
* The title encapsulates the three listed elements, “This Poem is a ____, ____ and a _____”
This poem is a storm forming on the horizon.
This poem is the inky colour of thunder-clouds.
This poem is my love of the brooding before the eruption
(and of the eruption).
This poem is a gathering darkness, both threat and promise.
When the storm comes, we know it will be explosive,
wild and shattering, in a way that stirs the blood …
and that afterwards there will be clean air, sunlight, peace.
This poem is dark grey, or smokey blue, deepening to black.
This poem is made of ink and passion, sensual arousal and observation,
elements collecting at the edge of consciousness until,
with a roar and a flash of light, they overflow onto the page.
This poem is the way I love the hunkering down of the sky,
love the birds, alert and aware, hurrying to safety ahead of
the coming downpour and relentless wind – and afterwards
love the re-awakening of cleansed earth, clear sky, birdsong.
This poem is a necessary clearing of the air; a burst of inspiration.
This poem is all the ink staining my fingers in many years of writing.
This poem is my love of words, my love of feeling, my love of life.
This poem is written for Friday Writings #94, Storm, Ink, Love, at Poets and Storytellers United, in which Magaly invites us to use these words in a piece of writing.
I thought this prompt was tailor-made for Hannah Gosselin's Boomerang Metaphors, a favorite form I love to return to from time to time. As it has become difficult to access details via link, I post a summary here.
The smell of suntan lotion,
and I’m straight back
to that beach in Bali
that afternoon, with Bill
and our little boys.
It was 1973, our first
holiday outside Australia.
We were carefree,
and full of wonder.
We still loved each other.
Written for Friday Writings #93: Scent of a Poem at Poets and Storytellers United.
I start my walk to the shops.
Few people along this village road.
A toddler, pushed in a stroller,
spies me going past the other way,
cocks her finger at me and gurgles.
She changes me. I fill with smiles,
waggling my hand back at her,
exchanging grins with her mother.
She changes us all, and
changes our interactions.
I take the upper path, above
trees and river – almost step
on a flattened cane toad
some driver didn’t miss. Think
of the handsome goanna
sprawled across half the road
the other day, his proud head up.
Luckily no traffic there.
I tooted, swerved and missed.
He took off into the bush.
Next day my sleek black hunter
nosed at an open drawer.
I thought he was trying to climb inside
(he likes cubby-holes, that cat)
but later he brought out on to the floor
the upturned white-bellied body
of a small lizard, dead.
I wondered then,
does Nature demand
a life lost for a life saved?
I contemplate, too, the woman
who shares her space with wombats.
“They think so differently
about the world,” she says,
finding that charming. “We forget,”
she adds, “That we are animals too.”
I am an event in nature,
like a wombat or goanna.
I am an agent of change,
like introduced cats and toads.
Written 29/9/09
I recently fished this out of my 'Drafts for Reworking' folder to ask the other members of the (offline) LitChix writers' group for their opinions, because it was the only one in that folder I couldn't readily see what to do with: tighten or ditch. They told me it didn't need anything doing; it's charming and interesting as it stands. So after years of hiding it away, I'm at last sharing it here.
