This Poem is Storm, Ink and Love

 

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

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.

The Presence of the Observer Changes What’s Being Observed

 

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.