Of Country

Poetry Month, day 20

The prompt today at "imaginary garden with real toads" is Say the Names of the Places You Love.

Of Country

Murwillumbah in the Northern Rivers,

under the mountain known as Wollumbin

(which Captain Cook christened Mt Warning)

is a home which I came to late in life.

Seers, oracles and guides all told me

I belonged far north of where I was. Then Fate 

and the Universe took a hand, offering a house 

for rent, all the way up here, in Pumpenbil

out past Tyalgum, at the end of a dirt road

nearly to the top of the hill. The name our landlady

gave that place was Djieriong, a Bundjalung word

meaning "Freedom of the Heart". 

And we found that here. Though we didn't

find any of the "many possums" we were told that

Murwillumbah was the "place of" – and as for

the mountain, there are those who say

white settlers misunderstood. That name,

they say, belonged originally to a different mountain

further along the range. Be that as it may, 

it seems to me they are all good names 

to use in this rainforest land, this sacred earth,

this mountain-ringed, vast valley of many rivers,

this huge Caldera around its crystal-full peak.

Do I say this is now my place? That idea of land 

as possession, as property, is a notion brought 

by invaders. The original people say, I believe, 

that they belong to the land; custodians, caretakers. 

And more than that, deeper than that: the land that bore them 

is their spirit home. They are always connected 

to that country. One time, for reasons, I and some others 

were given the freedom of this land here, for life, 

by one who could – a Githabul elder 

from out Kyogle way. So yes, I do belong.

Note: Shae Brown, the above-mentioned "landlady" became a very dear friend as well. She comments elsewhere, on this poem:
"So beautiful Rosemary, it is always a delicate balance being non-Indigenous and being sensitive to knowledge as well. I connected with a Bundjalung Elder when I first moved here, to introduce myself and to respectfully ask permission to be here, which he gave...and then gave me the word to represent my relationship with Country."

Unseasonable

Poetry Month, day 19

In Get Listed at "imaginary garden with real toads" I chose, from several lists of words to include in a poem: sensual, features, blue, mouth. (We could also be inspired by a poem about Spring in April – but where I live, April means Autumn!)

Unseasonable

Sensual Autumn fails to arrive 

this April. The warm blue skies

we expected do not appear.

Instead we look up at a vast white

stippled with grey. So far, the month

features rain, thunder, wind, more rain. 

The mouth of the river is rippled 

with stormy waves, even before

it merges with the sea. What gods

must we pray to, so as to avert

further punishment for all our misdeeds?

Are we ourselves the gods who now

make the weather happen? Then who

indeed shall we pray to? (Mother 

and Father both being gone.)

Five and a Half Years Later

Poetry Month, day 18

In Write Here. Write Now. at "imaginary garden with real toads". we were directed to breathe in, breathe out, be here now, and write about the moment.

Five and a Half Years Later

When I breathe in deep, and out,

when time and the world stop,

when I come into the moment

here and now, when I enter myself ...

I know that nothing is different,

it is only covered

by the small occurrences 

that make a life,

it has only gone deeper under

the everyday necessities of being.

I am still stopped 

at that moment when there was no more

you and me but only me

continuing

after you breathed in 

and out

and stopped.

Predominantly Black

Poetry Month, day 17

Predominantly Black

On White II by Vassily Kandinsky

He is a knight 

setting off for battle,

lance couched and ready,

the four shod hooves of his horse 

lifting high, glinting. At this stage

his black helmet is still visor up.

He boards a ship.

One sail is furled along the mast.

The other flies, bold yellow.

The ship's flag is red,

matching the kingly crest 

on the knight's helmet.

Over all, superimposed, central,

but unbeknownst to him,

is the round clock-face of Time.

His hours – perhaps even minutes –

are numbered. He is a soldier

going to war. This story ends badly.

The painting is labelled simply, deliberately,

On White II – the artist refusing

colourful interpretation. "It's an exercise,"

he is saying, "in hues and shapes.

Nothing more." But then he gives it

to us. And here and now to me.

In my world, knights with lances

are long gone, ancient. Now we go to war 

with planes as often as ships, 

though we also still fight on the ground. 

We watch on TV. We know it won't end well.

The clock ticks. It's a time-bomb.

At "imaginary garden with real toads", in The Tuesday Platform ~ April Style, we are invited to be inspired by any Kandinsky painting that speaks to us. This one was voluble indeed!

I'll have to rewrite this poem some day, in the light of this fascinating and comprehensive discussion of Kandinsky, which quite invalidates what I've suggested about his paintings being intended as visual exercises only!

Image used according to Fair Use.

Remembering Games of My Childhood

Poetry Month, day 16

Remembering Games of My Childhood

My Grandpa taught me cribbage,

a complex game for two. 

All I remember now

is putting tiny pegs 

in rows of tiny holes

on a narrow, rectangular board.

What I really remember, still, 

is those long, quiet talks, 

heads bending close. 

He taught me many things 

besides the game; never 

treated me as just a kid.

Uncle Ian taught all us kids

how to play Chinese Checkers, 

around the dining table. 

I loved the strong colours

of the round balls, and loved the big 

six-pointed star we jumped them across.

Checkers was a noisy game

with lots of laughter. After that I never 

could properly learn chess, later;

kept wanting to take all the pieces fast. 
Uncle Ian treated us exactly like kids.

Both ways were good, I remember.


Image Public Domain

For It's All Fun and Games at "imaginary garden with real toads"

So High Climbs the Price When You Want a Thing

Poetry month, day 15

So High Climbs the Price When You Want a Thing

so much you want it that you pay the price – Villon

Bali 1973.
Sanur beach.

A row of tiny shops.

The hollowed stump 

of a coconut palm

remade as bowl and lid,

painstakingly carved.

Bill saw my look –

fleeting, 

but he knew me. 

He began haggling.

I walked out.

Mustn't show

my huge desire.

Afterwards: "How 

are we going to get it 

back home on the plane?"

Clothes packed in

as well as around it,

inside our trunk.

Excess luggage fee.

Still worth it, 55 years on;

gracing my hallway,

holding my oracle cards.


For Serendipity and a poet at "imaginary garden with real toads".