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.)

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.

Trees or Teddy Bears?

Trees or Teddy Bears?

I have nine teddy bears

(not counting the very tiny ones).

I would happily sit them in windows

to delight young children going by,

being taken on almost-solitary walks

by a loving parent or grandparent

in this time of widespread isolation.

But (a) my windows are far back

from the street, (b) I live in 

a cul-de-sac at the top of a hill –

no-one walks up here anyway,

except those of us who already live

in this quiet, childless space where 

we seldom even see our neighbours.

And (c) the one big window at the front, 

which could be visible from the street

if I sat my largest bear on the sill,

is covered by the thick branches

of my high, wide frangipani. Let any 

passers-by be nourished by that tree!

Written for April 2020 Day 2: Tree Mythology at 'imaginary garden with real toads',  from an archived prompt. I realise belatedly we were not only supposed to write about a tree, but specifically a myth about a tree. So this doesn't really answer the prompt, sorry. But it's where my Muse led me today, when I thought about trees.

What She Wished For Me

What She Wished For Me

She perceived me as poor, and wanted to cause me abundance.

‘Find me some sticks for wands,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay well.’

After months of crafting, decorating, imbuing with power, she’d sell them at a much higher price. But she was sick now, and couldn’t scavenge for herself.

from her window

forests on the hills –
too far to walk

Sticks on the ground had always spoken to me — not all, but those that wanted to come home with me. Some that called me became my wands, but I never did anything to them. No extra magic, no decoration. I thought them sufficient in themselves.

Searching on her behalf wasn’t so easy. But some seemed possible; I collected a bundle. She was disappointed. 

‘This wood’s dead: dry and brittle. This one has yucky energy. This might do, if I break that bit off.... 

‘I want you to talk to the sticks you find, listen to them, feel their energy, sense their purpose. The ones I need are drawn to me.’

I didn’t say that was so for me too, that I really knew how to find the special sticks. Nor that I spoke to them, asking if they wanted to be with me, and listened for their answers. I thought it would seem that I was making pathetic excuses.

Next search, I found two that called me. When I held them, they fit my hand, they sang to my blood. I claimed them; never told her. 

taking fallen sticks
from someone else's land –
is that stealing?

I did talk to others, explored their energy; finally brought her more. They didn’t excite her, but she felt they’d serve.

She confessed she was training me to be her PA so I could go off the Age Pension. ‘You’re so not elderly,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you fit. You’re going to live long; you’ll need serious money. When I’m well again, I'll employ you full time.’

Now I had to speak up, tell truth. 

‘Sorry, I won’t do that. I’d never give that job the energy it needs. I’ll always choose to give first priority to poetry. Always.’

She got it; didn’t argue – though her eyes dulled. I told myself she’d soon find someone to replace me. 

Before that could happen, unexpectedly, she died.

I inherited her wands. 

empty house –

her elder tree by the door

flowering

The April 2020, Day 20 prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads' is When Good Wishes Go Bad.