I must ...

 

‘I must go and visit Robyn’ (now in an aged care home near me) I keep telling myself – and keep putting it off. Finally I realise why: that’s where my Andrew died.

a black butterfly

in my neglected garden

flutters aimlessly

Is There Joy In Chaos?

 

That may depend on whether

the chaos is self-created 

or random, but then again 

it might depend more 

on the particular kind of chaos, 

no matter where it originates,

because there are some 

we can cope with, such as 

a sudden rainstorm, or 

the clean-up after a party,

and some we can even, yes, rejoice in, 

like watching an out-of-nowhere 

influx of shooting stars, or like 

the wild, merry dancing 

at the aforesaid party: a crowd 

of people somewhat tipsy 

and very festive, loving the music; 

and then there’s the chaos 

we all want to run away from —

the pandemics, the wars, 

the natural disasters, those

from which we long for a saviour …

and there’s the chaos that follows 

after we elect who we think

is just such a saviour, and that one 

begins to actually do the things 

that were promised, and then 

we see what that looks like

and feels like, and we realise: 

No, there is no joy in this.

Written for Friday Writings #162: Joy In Chaos at Poets and Storytellers United.

Brain Rot

 

What kind?

Deterioration in old age?

Alcoholic self-destruction?

Suddenly losing one’s mind

in a classic nervous breakdown?

Does a poet rot on the page?

Do the words turn wildly

incomprehensible, or 

just banal? At what stage

is one seen to be writing rot?

Does a brain rot mildly,

or in a dramatic burst?

Does it short out, bang!

just like that, or turn over idly

with not enough spark?

Does it jerk about first

like a landed fish flapping?

Does it crumble obediently, or shout

in defiance, ‘No! Do your worst!’

as it disintegrates?

Will the rot catch me napping

or will there be signs?

Will sense leak away quietly,

or pulverise, as from the zapping

of a rapid-fire weapon?

Perhaps all these lines

of repetitive questions

reveal the truth already,

as the poem defines 

a sad lack of fresh thinking?

When the ideas don't flow freely, I turn to form. This is a Weave, a form invented by David James.

Written for Friday Writings #161 at Poets and Storytellers United, where Magaly invites us to incorporate the phrase I've used as a title.

Low Battery

 

My battery is failing gradually: not 

all at once with a sudden, silent stop

but blinkingly, haltingly, bit by bit …

interrupting itself with sudden (brief)

upsurges of vigour, effervescence, life.

Life is a long journey of body and mind

if we’re lucky and don’t lose it early –

though some might think that fortunate,

whose lives are painful, restricted, sad.

Mine’s been long, and mostly good.

But where in the body is the battery? 

Which organ houses my get-up-and-go, 

my being on? What is my source 

of vital energy? Can’t be the brain: 

that’s not failing, not seriously yet. 

But the body limps, hunches, hesitates,

has become reluctant to move forward

into all its many responsibilities

(except the ones involving sitting,

such as writing this, or any poem).

I rule out the heart. Also the intricate

digestive bits. The doctors have got them 

well controlled with medications, all

functioning as well or better than before –

except for the gall bladder: disabled.

Oh, and the tonsils, long gone. Otherwise 

I’m intact. Er, well, that word suggests

the sexual. I’m not of course intact

in that way, not since my twenties. So now

at 85, I can answer a famous question.

When does desire stop? Truthfully,

my answer is the same as that legendary

French countess (whose name 

I forget!) who said, ‘You must ask

someone else. I am only 72.’

But at 85 I can tell you: though desire 

is not gone exactly, it has reduced. 

It has slowed, eased off, become less

urgent, intractable, fierce … just like 

my whole physicality… Ah, so that’s it!

Written for Friday Writings 150: Low Battery at Poets and Storytellers United.

Loss / Possession

 

I recall him:

handsome, saturnine aristocrat,

humourless brother of 

The Laughing Cavalier

on my mother's

wall ... fancy hat 

with swirling brim,

deep green coat.

Long lost now –

after she died,

all her property

dispersed or abandoned.

I remember too,

later, a card:

the Green Woman

wrinkled and wise.

A student begged 

to borrow, copy. 

I was reluctant; 

she promised return.

She never did. 

She moved  away, 

leaving no address…

Remembering, I see 

again, or still, 

that image of 

nut-brown, smiling face

kindly, knowing eyes. 

These decades later,

their clear features

revive: never truly

lost or stolen.

For Friday Writings #159: Making It New, at Poets and Storytellers United: a remix (or perhaps more of a revision) of an earlier version also written for P&SU. This one began as an erasure, then I rearranged it slightly in places for more coherence, and altered some words. It settled into three-word lines and four-line verses.

Not that I was unhappy with the original; this was just done for the purpose of the exercise. I actually like both versions and I'm not sure either is 'better', just different. However, such paring down can sometimes save a piece that isn't working. In poetry, often 'less is more'.

Found Haiku, December 2024

 

many doors have closed

some faerie have withdrawn —

they left with the woods

Found in Enchantment of the Faerie Realm byTed Andrews

tawny tiger —

my cat in the dark

with eyes of light

Found in my own 12-line poem Feline, published in the collaborative collection She Too, CXD, 2014 (also to be found on an earlier blog, if you click the link).

the scuffing 

of schoolboy shoes on gravel

breaking the silence

Article on the town of Mt Pleasant in The Australian Women’s Weekly February 2024.

first day of school —

one child after another

setting off

From the ‘Family Matters’ column by Pat McDermott in The Australian Women’s Weekly February 2024.