Looking Back

 

I see me small, on a vast lawn – a smooth green lawn surrounded by bushes, some of them berry bushes, others flowers. There are two huge weeping willows further down the yard, one on either side of the vegetable garden past the end of the lawn, beyond the wooden trellis summer-house.

I am all alone. The two-storey back of the house looms large and flat. My mother, upstairs, sometimes looks out the distant kitchen window to check on me. Her face is tiny, far away and pale, ghost-like.

Yet I don’t feel lonely. All around me the garden throbs with life. Insects are drawn to the flowers, small birds to the berries. The willow leaves, on their long dangling fronds that sweep the ground, rustle and toss, lightly and gently, in intermittent breeze.

I talk in my mind to clouds, to birds, to insects, to berries … to the rising trunks and curtaining fronds of both the soft green willows. I talk to the listeners under the ground and the watchers behind the sky.

When they reply, it is not as if to a small child. They answer all my questions, calmly. I feel rather than hear their answers. I feel, too, their assurance of my understanding.

My young mother, enclosed in the house, does, I think (I think in hindsight) feel fearfully alone … lonely …

Written for Poets and Storytellers United, Friday Writings #219.

Why Did Life and Circumstance ...?

On my smart TV I find Jules et Jim

and watch it again after all this time,

remembering when Verona and I

saw all the New Wave movies from France. 

There had never been anything like them. 

We were both in love with Alain Delon. 

Though The Seventh Seal from Sweden was 

what utterly blew our minds. (Nothing else

did; we were probably the last generation

so innocent of drugs.) We were living in Carlton, 

I was a student. There was only one university

in Melbourne then. The cinema was next to 

the pawn shop; we were customers of both. 

We became best friends: discovering and loving 

words and art together. We were sharing 

a rented house. She painted a mural 

on her bedroom wall – one that could be

washed off when we left. I failed French and 

switched to Philosophy. (English Lit was always 

a given.) Germaine Greer was on stage at the Union 

Theatre. We called it the Onion. Germaine could 

sing, dance, act and be funny, the lot. It was before 

she wrote her book. She had purple hair, long 

purple nails, legs that went on forever, and 

a voice husky from cigarettes. We all smoked. 

Everything altered with the long vacation 

when I went home to Tassie and we couldn’t 

keep renting the house. But it took a few more years 

and many life changes before that idyllic friendship 

soured. We were grown by then, mothers by then. 

I was already divorced the first time. Verona was 

widowed. I never saw her again after 1967, although 

I know vaguely what became of her (the grapevine). 

Like me, she contrived a life which she’s still living.

We only watched those movies once; they burned 

into the brain forever after. But now I’d like to go back, 

revisit the young Delon, wish once more for a mouth 

like Jeanne Moreau’s, and still be so blazingly clear

that Art is the whole meaning and purpose of life.

For Friday Writings #99: Why??? at Poets and Storytellers United, I'm asking people to entitle a piece 'Why—?' fill in the blank, and write to our title. As you see, my own title question is still somewhat unfinished, but I trust the poem will clarify.

13 Things Not Everyone Knows About Me

1.

I had three grandfathers (though only two grandmothers). ‘Grandpa’,

the only one I ever met, was a ‘step’, but my mother and I loved him – 

because he loved us, gave us books and wise advice, and lots of time

for long conversations and letters, and walks through Nature together.

2.

Of all my grandparents, though, the one I loved most was my Nana, 

Grandpa’s wife. She died when I was only four. I’ll never forget her.

A warm rich voice, a warm lap to sit on, warm arms to clasp me safe, 

a big warm bosom to snuggle into. She told me stories, sang me lullabies.

3. 

I was nine before parents and teachers noticed I needed glasses. 

Before that, the other kids called me ‘stuck up’. I didn’t say hello 

until they were close and I could see their faces, see who they were. 

By which time, feeling ignored, they turned up their noses at me. 

4. 

I like a handsome face as much as the next girl, and also a splendid form. But a better aphrodisiac is laughter. Make me laugh, go on doing that, and you’ve probably got me. But if you want to keep me – listen! 

Hear me! Hear me deep. Open to what you hear. Consider it.

5.

Everyone knows I’m a cat-lover, been one all my life. Not many know

my dearest animal friend was a dog. He stood as high as my thigh. 

His bark was a deep bay. He was a stray who came and found me – 

after I had many visions of him. (He reincarnated later as one of my cats.)

6. 

I have a water phobia. I love the water, but swim from the neck down.

I need to keep my face out; can’t be splashed or I panic – really panic. 

I believe I drowned in Atlantis. Some of us didn’t get out in time.

When the water came, I swam and swam, but at last I grew too tired. 

7.

I’d be scared to get close to any but a small spider. Yet I revere spiders.

In my house no-one’s allowed to kill them. Unless they’re dangerous.

When a white-tailed spider crawled from under a pile of washing, once, in my elderly mother’s home, I stomped on it quick. An exception.

8. 

A few of my dreams have a special flavour. When I wake up, I know 

they are not just part of the ordinary run of dreams, where we sort out

the daily garbage. Also, I remember them. I remember them always.

Some turn out prophetic. The rest, I think, are glimpses of other lives.

9.

I have a deformed fingernail on the ring finger of my right hand. 

My cousin dropped a brick on it when she was three. I was four. 

She always said it was an accident, but still claimed to feel guilty. 

I always believed she did it on purpose. No-one ever notices, though.

10.

When I was little I longed to be a ballet dancer.  But when my Mum

took me to my first (and only) ballet class, I couldn’t do it! My body

wouldn’t carry out even the simplest instructions. Lack of rhythm, 

poor coordination, no ear for music … which? Probably all. 

11.

When I was growing up, I never dreamed about being a bride. I never

craved babies. Didn’t want a handsome Prince to come and rescue me.

I wanted to be the swashbuckler; my own d’Artagnan or Robin Hood.

I didn’t want to be a boy. I wanted the adventures boys were allowed. 

12.

I have very small hands and feet, and head. But they don’t look small.

Just don’t ever give me hats or gloves or slippers; I’ll swim in them.

No-one quite believes this. They’re sure they’ll get it right. They don’t.

My Firstborn says he's the same. You wouldn’t guess it of him, either.

13. 

I’ve always had a thing for dragons. There was a time I'd call them 

through the ether, to be my companions or guardians; even requested

their company for others – who did experience it. My 'tuned in' friend,

Letitia, said I had two dragon incarnations a very long time ago.

Dragon photo (and dragon ) mine.

Sharing this post with Thursday Thirteen, a new game to play.

Goodbye Childhood

Goodbye Childhood

This is Julie, the sleeping doll I got for Christmas when I was seven.

Actually, that’s not true. The one I got was dressed in pale green, my mother’s favourite colour. I was so disappointed that I cried. My favourite colour was blue. My father hastened back to the shop to try and change her. (It stayed open Christmas morning just for that reason.) Luckily he could. Then I was happy.

I loved Julie dearly, and used to walk her in a little toy pram. She came without underwear! I made her some black panties. They weren’t very glamorous; they were square, seams tacked together in white thread (I didn’t have black). But she wore them forever after, under her pretty clothes. I couldn’t comb her hair; it was glued to her head in a mass, no strands to separate.

Mum said later how sad she was that it was so soon after the war (World War 2) that we still felt the effects of rationing. China dolls weren’t available. Julie had bakelite limbs and head and a rag body stuffed with something that felt like stiffly packed chaff. I didn’t care. No basis of comparison! I thought she was beautiful.

Originally there was lace around her bonnet. Several decades later, she looked shabby, and almost bald (that hair disintegrated over time). She’d lost the booties that matched her bonnet. A crafty friend gave her new hair and booties. I sat her by my bed. She shouldn’t be hidden away, I thought.

Years after, in a recent decluttering, I took a good look at her. High time I washed those clothes again! I took off her bonnet. It was thickly lined with bits of hair that had come away. In the wash, the ribbons on her dress fell to pieces. Her cloth body felt lumpy. Her stumpy bakelite fingers showed some knocks. 

I’d sometimes contemplated selling her to an antique shop. But who’d want this war-time baby in her deterioration? 

I hadn’t cuddled her in a long time. I’d let her get dusty.

So much for sentimentality! Julie and her clobber, even the black panties I lovingly made her when I was little, all went into the bin.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #93 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we're asked to write about something we loved as a child.

Gifts Bestowed

 Gifts Bestowed

Penny phoned, regarding bad energy and things breaking down.

‘Can you help in a house clearing? Today?’

My guides spoke in my mind: 

‘Full regalia.’

I was new to formal magic. (Natural magic, with me all my life, was a different matter.) I owned no regalia as such, but chose a long dress and crystal necklaces.

I suddenly felt I needed a special ring for my right forefinger, but had nothing to fit.

‘It will be given,’ I was told.

At Penny’s, almost the first thing I saw was a silver ring on her windowsill, shaped as a Celtic knot. Aha!

‘Can I borrow this?’ I asked. 

‘Oh, you can have it,’ she said. A client had given her a box of trinkets, she’d picked what she wanted and the rest were lying around for any takers. It fitted my forefinger perfectly. Since then – over 20 years ago – it’s hardly been off.  

We smudged the house, going widdershins around it. (Anti-sunwise, which is clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.) We went around again, drumming. I pointed my newly-ringed finger in a dramatic ‘Begone!’ gesture, putting intense willpower behind it. Then I filled the whole space with Reiki. Thereafter, she reported, the troublesome incidents stopped.

A few years later, while I was decluttering papers, a cut-out of the printed word, ‘Master’, stuck to my left forefinger. A friend said jokingly,

‘That must be your Master finger!’

(She knew that, as a Reiki Master, while I use both hands, one is my ‘power hand’.)

Then one Sunday I got a big hit to go to the local market and find a scarab ring for that finger.

I 'just knew' the right stall, but after they showed me all their scarab rings and none suited, I began to wonder. Finally they pulled a box from under the counter.

There was my silver scarab ring, underside shaped to the contours of my left forefinger: a perfect fit. It too has seldom left that finger since.

Two strands: past-life Egyptian recollections; this-life Scottish ancestry.

Today, with so much hand sanitising, these flat rings are the only two I still wear.

When I direct energy, they add their power to mine.

For Weekly Scribblings #91 at Poets and Storytellers United, Magaly invited us to write poetry or prose inspired by personal symbols. Not a symbol that holds the same meaning for everyone, but something special to you'.  

The rings are of course shown here larger than life-size,  for the detail.

Crossing the Road

 Crossing the Road

Small schoolgirl stands 

at the kerb,

looking left, right,

and left again.

Cars and trucks

from both directions

stream past her.

She doesn’t move.

There are, here,

no crossing lights,

no painted stripes

on the road.

The little girl

stands still, looking 

back and forth …

begins to cry.

Written as an example of Realism, for Weekly Scribblings #89 at Poets and Storytellers United. 

I did my best to look from the outside and describe only what could be apprehended with the senses (while hoping those details would convey more) – but this was something I 'saw' from memory, in my mind's eye. The little girl was, once upon a time, me.

Father’s Day Recollections

My father comes back to me now

in his prime, not as the old man

frail and forgetful – though even then

he found ways to be cheerful. No,

I see him as the wise counsellor

and personal friend; before

the flaws became visible

and filled my gaze … ah well, 

it was a brief time. But good.

I could go further back

to the fun young Dad, 

the one who rolled on the floor

as we tickled him, the one 

who hugged us, laughed, taught us 

our letters on alphabet blocks,

made us toy bows and arrows 

from his own home-grown bamboo.

(All his life, he loved to garden.)

Or I could focus on 

his walking-stick, his limp,

the suppressed winces of pain.

There were bad days and good.

I never asked what made

the difference. (Was it 

the weather?) All that 

was just part of the background 

of life, of what made him him.

I try not to think (but I must)

of the weakness, the betrayal.

I call it out now:

self-indulgence, cowardice.

The serial infidelities that at last 

lost him my mother’s love; the failure 

to guard his children from the cruel 

mad stepmother he gave us

in a face-saving, hasty remarriage.

Poor Dad! But was he? After 

she mentally castrated him (ironic 

fate) he taught himself to paint 

landscapes in oils, and sold them. 

(Some he gave away to my brother and me, 

after we were grown, living our own lives.)

And he wandered the Mallee, finding thick, 

knobbed, curling sticks which he sanded 

and polished as walking-sticks. Sold them too.

All this, and more, made up the man.

There was also the boy I heard about

from his sister my aunt, and my grandma

his mother. Crippled young by an accident, 

but cheerful, making the best. A dreamer, 

a reader. A lover of poetry, who wrote it too.

The man recited poems (other people’s)

at parties, where the leg didn’t stop him

being a smooth ballroom dancer….

But he comes back first

in his prime; the one I could talk to,

the kindred spirit, the companion

sharing favourite books, the knowing advisor

enlightening his teenage daughter

on the male point of view, the grown-up

expanding my understanding

of history, sociology, psychology,

nature. And of course literature.

He was in his way, I suppose,

a good-looking man – open countenance,

fair skin; pleasant, even features 

(apart from the family nose with its bump)

and well set-up, as they used to say.

What he couldn’t get from sport (because 

of the leg) he could from gardening. 

So he never got fat. Just squarer.

His usual expression was kindly.

He gave me my own poetry,

reading and writing. He gave me

my politics, and my belief

that intolerance is the thing

I should most be intolerant of.

(Perhaps he also gave me

a liking for liquor, and a sad lack

of Puritan morals!) I loved him again

and he knew it, shortly before he died.

I don't have any photos of him at the time I most like to recall, so instead I show him as a young man in father role, and as the elderly artist (resting his hand on one of the wooden walking-sticks he crafted).

And yes,  today is Father's Day in Australia.

I'm sharing this post in Writers' Pantry #86 at Poets and Storytellers United.