Today is Poetry Thursday. I didn't follow the suggestion to print out the template and leave poems in various places, guerilla style. I may try it in the future - if I do, I am thinking that I may print out this poem and leave it at various spots around the airport near where I work - on the magazine racks in the bookstore, among the tourist brochures. Another day, when I have more time.
I did get home though, and find a set of these poetry postcards in my mail. They come from the Scottish Poetry Library by way of my friend M at Creative Voyage. Thanks M!
As it is NaPoWriMo, and I am following the daily prompts, here is my poem using the prompt "tick tock"
The Waiting Room
tick tock
the clock
on the wall
sweeps the seconds
as he flicks
through the pages
of a magazine
tick tock
doesn't see
the words
a child pushes
a toy car
back and forth
back and forth
tick tock
door opens
door closes
people walk
in and out
tick tock
looks up
looks away
looks up
the doctor
in a white coat
stethoscope swinging
like the pendulum
of a clock
tick tock
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
NaPoWriMo #16
Today, I'm grateful for an accommodating boss. I wanted very much to go and hear Jeanette de Nicolis Meyer speak at our city Art Gallery. She is spending a month in Christchurch as artist in residence at the Arts Centre, and was speaking as the Friends of the Art Gallery speaker of the month, on "The Narrative Thread".
The Friends of the Art Gallery tend to be of a certain generation - or at least the ones who attend "Speaker of the Month" are. The generation of "Ladies who Lunch". Consequently the events are on a Wednesday morning. Some of us have to work. Not today. I told my boss I had things I needed to do, and could I come in late? Fortunately he said yes. I'll make up the time in a week or two when my second, temporary, job comes to an end. Leaving me less tired and with less money. You can't have it all!
Jeanette is an abstract art quilter, and yet her quilts tell stories. It was fascinating to hear her speak and to come to understand more of the symbolism behind her quilts. And I was pleased to hear that an exhibition of six Pacific Northwest quilters, of which she is one, will be coming to Christchurch later in the year. And also that she is having an open studio in a week's time (at the weekend, so I won't have to figure out how to take more time off work).
In the evening I attended another in the local Poets' Collective autumn series of poetry readings. Bring your own poetry in the first half, and guest readers in the second half. It was an interesting evening, because each of the four guest readers presented poetry from a different European country, both in the original and in their own translations - poetry from Germany, France, Russia and Italy.
All this led to a rather full day, and inspiration for my own poetry was a little lacking. However, I'm beginning to see my series of daily poems as a sort of poetry sketchbook. I'm not trying to do huge landscapes or fully developed portraits here. Some sketches may be more detailed than others, but on some days, perhaps a quick sketch will suffice.
The Narrative Thread
In the darkened auditorium
she speaks of the softness of cloth,
of the threads which stitch our lives.
We emerge to a river of glass.
Its panes fracture the brittle sky
into a thousand pieces.
(I included a photo of the art gallery windows in this post)
The Friends of the Art Gallery tend to be of a certain generation - or at least the ones who attend "Speaker of the Month" are. The generation of "Ladies who Lunch". Consequently the events are on a Wednesday morning. Some of us have to work. Not today. I told my boss I had things I needed to do, and could I come in late? Fortunately he said yes. I'll make up the time in a week or two when my second, temporary, job comes to an end. Leaving me less tired and with less money. You can't have it all!
Jeanette is an abstract art quilter, and yet her quilts tell stories. It was fascinating to hear her speak and to come to understand more of the symbolism behind her quilts. And I was pleased to hear that an exhibition of six Pacific Northwest quilters, of which she is one, will be coming to Christchurch later in the year. And also that she is having an open studio in a week's time (at the weekend, so I won't have to figure out how to take more time off work).
In the evening I attended another in the local Poets' Collective autumn series of poetry readings. Bring your own poetry in the first half, and guest readers in the second half. It was an interesting evening, because each of the four guest readers presented poetry from a different European country, both in the original and in their own translations - poetry from Germany, France, Russia and Italy.
All this led to a rather full day, and inspiration for my own poetry was a little lacking. However, I'm beginning to see my series of daily poems as a sort of poetry sketchbook. I'm not trying to do huge landscapes or fully developed portraits here. Some sketches may be more detailed than others, but on some days, perhaps a quick sketch will suffice.
The Narrative Thread
In the darkened auditorium
she speaks of the softness of cloth,
of the threads which stitch our lives.
We emerge to a river of glass.
Its panes fracture the brittle sky
into a thousand pieces.
(I included a photo of the art gallery windows in this post)
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
NaPoWriMo #15
Don't think that the following in any way comes from my personal experience:
The Long Winter
First, we ate the grain we had stored for seed.
We ate the livestock. When the hens stopped laying,
we ate the hens. Then, we dug beneath the snow
for the stubble of last autumn's harvest. We ate
the small birds that fell frozen from the branches.
Once, we found a fish frozen solid into the ice of the creek.
When the snow became too deep, we ate the bark
from the logs that we cut for the fire. We melted the snow
and dissolved the glue from the spines of books.
We drank the liquid. When the snow started to melt,
and the first wagons came through, they brought us flour
and meat. We stared at it, dull-eyed. We did not want
to eat. Our hunger was the only thing
we knew could fill us up.
For the prompt "hunger" at Poetry Thursday
The Long Winter
First, we ate the grain we had stored for seed.
We ate the livestock. When the hens stopped laying,
we ate the hens. Then, we dug beneath the snow
for the stubble of last autumn's harvest. We ate
the small birds that fell frozen from the branches.
Once, we found a fish frozen solid into the ice of the creek.
When the snow became too deep, we ate the bark
from the logs that we cut for the fire. We melted the snow
and dissolved the glue from the spines of books.
We drank the liquid. When the snow started to melt,
and the first wagons came through, they brought us flour
and meat. We stared at it, dull-eyed. We did not want
to eat. Our hunger was the only thing
we knew could fill us up.
For the prompt "hunger" at Poetry Thursday
Monday, April 16, 2007
NaPoWriMo #14
Today's prompt at Poetry Thursday is "pearl". I thought about a number of possibilities for the word, but hadn't decided on which to use. In fact, I thought I was going to write something about the possibilities I came up with, and then write a different poem instead. Until I realised that my list of possibilites made a sort of prose poem in itself:
This is the poem I am not writing. This poem contains a large family of sisters with names like Pearl., Ruby, Opal and Garnet. Each sister wears a brooch that matches her name. This poem references a famous painting by Vermeer. This poem wakes early in the morning. It picks roses in the garden where dew sits like strings of pearls on spiderwebs. The sisters have flaming red hair and many suitors. This poem references a well-known story about Cleopatra. Scientists cast doubt on the story about the pearl. They say it would have taken many hours to dissolve in the wine glass. This poem strolls in the garden in the afternoon when clouds light up like mother of pearl in the pale sky. The eldest sister dresses in an ivory satin ballgown and places a string of pearls around her neck. Each pearl contains the reflection of the crowds of whirling dancers, the gallery of paintings on the wall, the crystal chandeliers. Each pearl contains a small world, like this poem.
This is the poem I am not writing. This poem contains a large family of sisters with names like Pearl., Ruby, Opal and Garnet. Each sister wears a brooch that matches her name. This poem references a famous painting by Vermeer. This poem wakes early in the morning. It picks roses in the garden where dew sits like strings of pearls on spiderwebs. The sisters have flaming red hair and many suitors. This poem references a well-known story about Cleopatra. Scientists cast doubt on the story about the pearl. They say it would have taken many hours to dissolve in the wine glass. This poem strolls in the garden in the afternoon when clouds light up like mother of pearl in the pale sky. The eldest sister dresses in an ivory satin ballgown and places a string of pearls around her neck. Each pearl contains the reflection of the crowds of whirling dancers, the gallery of paintings on the wall, the crystal chandeliers. Each pearl contains a small world, like this poem.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
NaPoWriMo #13
Today's prompt at Poetry Thursday is "plunge"
This poem has been waiting to be written for a while, but I resisted, as it felt influenced by Mary Oliver, and who wants to compete with Mary Oliver? The word "plunge" was just the nudge I needed to try and set it down.
Let me tell you about shags,
how they sit for hours on the branches of trees
above the river, wings outstretched
like laundry on a line.
They are entirely unsuited
to an aqueous life, lacking oil
in their feathers. Hour after hour
they sit, waiting for the sun
to relieve them of their burden,
for the water to rise in a mist.
And then, one sudden,
fierce plunge.
This poem has been waiting to be written for a while, but I resisted, as it felt influenced by Mary Oliver, and who wants to compete with Mary Oliver? The word "plunge" was just the nudge I needed to try and set it down.
Let me tell you about shags,
how they sit for hours on the branches of trees
above the river, wings outstretched
like laundry on a line.
They are entirely unsuited
to an aqueous life, lacking oil
in their feathers. Hour after hour
they sit, waiting for the sun
to relieve them of their burden,
for the water to rise in a mist.
And then, one sudden,
fierce plunge.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Rabbits, Pincushions and the Daily Poem
Yesterday I left work early for the first time in weeks. My desk was clear. I could have found some work to do but chose not to. This is my main job where I'm paid for a fixed number of hours. It is assumed that if I work a few less hours when it is less busy, I'll work more when it is busier. (In my other job, I'm only paid for the hours I do, so less hours means less money).
I had magazines to deliver to bookshops in town (that's my third job which is totally unpaid). I used this as an excuse to browse in the bookshops. I went first to the shop near the river:
It won't be long before these trees have completely changed to their autumn colours.
Then I strolled down to the art gallery:
Yes, that is a giant inflatable rabbit in the foyer. Part of one of the current exhibitions. They have a very nice shop at the art gallery. It has books, cards, stationery, children's games etc mostly with an art connection. But it does have some rather odd things as well. What I noticed on this occasion was a St Sebastian pincushion. I guess with a giant inflatable rabbit in the foyer, it's a good idea to have something for people who like to stick pins in things!
There was a cold wind blowing outside, so I didn't linger too long. But I did stop to take photos of the ripples in the shallow pools surrounding the building. It was fairly late in the afternoon so the shutter speed was a little long, and the images aren't as sharp as I would like. But I thought the reflections made an interesting pattern.
I haven't used the daily prompt for NaPoWriMo today (it was "bluff"). Nothing came to mind, so instead I played with an idea I had a while back, when Poetry Thursday had a food theme:
The True Story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden
She brings him apples.
She bites one, shows him how crisp it is,
how neat. He is not tempted.
She brings him bananas.
She peels one, bites into its soft flesh,
shows him how easy it is.
He is not tempted.
She brings him peaches.
She shows him the blush of its skin,
its juicy flesh. He sees its hairiness,
and finds it distasteful.
She brings him pears, broad-hipped,
lightly freckled, glowing golden
in the afternoon sun. He takes one,
bites into it, lets the juice dribble down his chin.
Leaving Eden, he has no regrets.
******
(Can you tell I like pears?)
I had magazines to deliver to bookshops in town (that's my third job which is totally unpaid). I used this as an excuse to browse in the bookshops. I went first to the shop near the river:
It won't be long before these trees have completely changed to their autumn colours.
Then I strolled down to the art gallery:
Yes, that is a giant inflatable rabbit in the foyer. Part of one of the current exhibitions. They have a very nice shop at the art gallery. It has books, cards, stationery, children's games etc mostly with an art connection. But it does have some rather odd things as well. What I noticed on this occasion was a St Sebastian pincushion. I guess with a giant inflatable rabbit in the foyer, it's a good idea to have something for people who like to stick pins in things!
There was a cold wind blowing outside, so I didn't linger too long. But I did stop to take photos of the ripples in the shallow pools surrounding the building. It was fairly late in the afternoon so the shutter speed was a little long, and the images aren't as sharp as I would like. But I thought the reflections made an interesting pattern.
I haven't used the daily prompt for NaPoWriMo today (it was "bluff"). Nothing came to mind, so instead I played with an idea I had a while back, when Poetry Thursday had a food theme:
The True Story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden
She brings him apples.
She bites one, shows him how crisp it is,
how neat. He is not tempted.
She brings him bananas.
She peels one, bites into its soft flesh,
shows him how easy it is.
He is not tempted.
She brings him peaches.
She shows him the blush of its skin,
its juicy flesh. He sees its hairiness,
and finds it distasteful.
She brings him pears, broad-hipped,
lightly freckled, glowing golden
in the afternoon sun. He takes one,
bites into it, lets the juice dribble down his chin.
Leaving Eden, he has no regrets.
******
(Can you tell I like pears?)
Friday, April 13, 2007
NaPoWriMo #11
I am really beginning to enjoy this process. I've realised that it doesn't take very long to produce a first draft. I'm not actually taking any less time on the writing process than I used to. It's just that when I have an idea, I know I have to set pen to paper within a day, whereas previously I'd let it roll around in my head for days and conjure up all kinds of resistance to actually writing something down. Probably because I wanted it to be really good on the first try, so that I didn't spoil my bright shiny idea.
Having the prompts is great. Each time I see one I think I can't possibly come up with anything using that word. And then my brain cells have a secret meeting somewhere, and pretty soon the ideas are coming. Or at least one idea which is all I need. Because they are words I might not think of using, left to myself, I find myself remembering things or exploring things that I wouldn't have done on my own.
Editing of course, is another matter. There will have to be a lot of that in the coming months.
Celluloid
Saturday afternoon at the Kinema.
It is somebody's birthday,
or we wouldn't be here.
Ninepence for the stalls, or sixpence
for the cheap seats at the front
if you don't mind a crick in your neck.
The rich kids in the dress circle come every week.
They send a rain of lollies
down from the balcony.
We are not sure what rich is,
having no television to tell us
what we are missing.
Perhaps they are not rich after all,
merely the children of parents more indulgent
than ours, or more desparate. Anyway,
they are initiates in the mystery
of the weekly serial, which for us is a story
without beginning or end. The cartoons
and the main feature are what we are there for.
And yet now, we remember nothing
of these celluloid stories - only the accent
of the reporter on the Movietone News
and the sound of jaffas
rolling down the aisles.
(Jaffas are a round sweet found in New Zealand, with a chocolate centre and a bright orange outside. As far as I can tell, no one ever bought Jaffas at the movies to eat, only to make noise with).
Now, I'm off to Poetry Thursday to check out the next prompt.
Having the prompts is great. Each time I see one I think I can't possibly come up with anything using that word. And then my brain cells have a secret meeting somewhere, and pretty soon the ideas are coming. Or at least one idea which is all I need. Because they are words I might not think of using, left to myself, I find myself remembering things or exploring things that I wouldn't have done on my own.
Editing of course, is another matter. There will have to be a lot of that in the coming months.
Celluloid
Saturday afternoon at the Kinema.
It is somebody's birthday,
or we wouldn't be here.
Ninepence for the stalls, or sixpence
for the cheap seats at the front
if you don't mind a crick in your neck.
The rich kids in the dress circle come every week.
They send a rain of lollies
down from the balcony.
We are not sure what rich is,
having no television to tell us
what we are missing.
Perhaps they are not rich after all,
merely the children of parents more indulgent
than ours, or more desparate. Anyway,
they are initiates in the mystery
of the weekly serial, which for us is a story
without beginning or end. The cartoons
and the main feature are what we are there for.
And yet now, we remember nothing
of these celluloid stories - only the accent
of the reporter on the Movietone News
and the sound of jaffas
rolling down the aisles.
(Jaffas are a round sweet found in New Zealand, with a chocolate centre and a bright orange outside. As far as I can tell, no one ever bought Jaffas at the movies to eat, only to make noise with).
Now, I'm off to Poetry Thursday to check out the next prompt.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
NaPoWriMo #10 (and Poetry Thursday)
For today's poem, I have managed to use the daily prompt "breathless", along with a line left by a Poetry Thursday participant, Megan for the weekly prompt ("but we're used to it"), and then for good measure, I added an ending that uses one of my favourite words, "meniscus".
I had planned to ignore the daily prompt in favour of doing the weekly prompt to use someone else's line, but when I saw Megan's line and started figuring out how to use it, I realised that "breathless" fitted right in. Thanks Megan!
Untitled
There isn't much romance here
but we're used to it. We have settled
into the packets of our lives,
space at the top showing how there used to be
more air. But the weight is the same.
I do his banking, fetch the drycleaning,
post his letters. He knows what to do
when a child wakes in the night
breathless and wheezing. You can't eat kisses.
We are practical people. We may not be sure
whether the glass is half full
or half empty, but we do know
how to read the water level
from the bottom of the meniscus.
I had planned to ignore the daily prompt in favour of doing the weekly prompt to use someone else's line, but when I saw Megan's line and started figuring out how to use it, I realised that "breathless" fitted right in. Thanks Megan!
Untitled
There isn't much romance here
but we're used to it. We have settled
into the packets of our lives,
space at the top showing how there used to be
more air. But the weight is the same.
I do his banking, fetch the drycleaning,
post his letters. He knows what to do
when a child wakes in the night
breathless and wheezing. You can't eat kisses.
We are practical people. We may not be sure
whether the glass is half full
or half empty, but we do know
how to read the water level
from the bottom of the meniscus.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
NaPoWriMo #9
After yesterday's whiny post, I find I actually managed to come up with two today. Setting the words down on paper during a coffee break at work helped (instead of waiting until I got home).
I'm hoping to play catch up this weekend, and visit all the other participants to see what they are doing with the prompts. I've only had time for a few so far.
One of these results from my musings on the possibilities of today's prompt at Poetry Thursday - "hollow" (yesterday's prompt, by the time I post the results). The other is a description of a scene near my work, into which I drop the word - whether it belongs there or not, I haven't quite decided.
Hollow (1)
You keep on rewriting
the book of your life. At each retelling
you become more tragic.
The cover bears illustrations
of delicate colours and haunting beauty.
Do not read it any longer. Keep it in the background
to enhance your decor, hollow out its pages,
use it as a hiding place
for your most secret key.
Hollow (2)
The leaves are falling from the trees
and all the colour has fallen out of the sky.
It is a landscape in black and white,
but the fields are from the studio
of another photographer - a study in sepia.
Tall seedheads scattered among the grasses
flocks of brown birds fly up and perch
on the backs of the sheep, brown with dust.
Over beyond the plains
the inky blue mountains
scroll across the horizon
like a painted backdrop. A hollow wind blows
from the proscenium arch.
I'm hoping to play catch up this weekend, and visit all the other participants to see what they are doing with the prompts. I've only had time for a few so far.
One of these results from my musings on the possibilities of today's prompt at Poetry Thursday - "hollow" (yesterday's prompt, by the time I post the results). The other is a description of a scene near my work, into which I drop the word - whether it belongs there or not, I haven't quite decided.
Hollow (1)
You keep on rewriting
the book of your life. At each retelling
you become more tragic.
The cover bears illustrations
of delicate colours and haunting beauty.
Do not read it any longer. Keep it in the background
to enhance your decor, hollow out its pages,
use it as a hiding place
for your most secret key.
Hollow (2)
The leaves are falling from the trees
and all the colour has fallen out of the sky.
It is a landscape in black and white,
but the fields are from the studio
of another photographer - a study in sepia.
Tall seedheads scattered among the grasses
flocks of brown birds fly up and perch
on the backs of the sheep, brown with dust.
Over beyond the plains
the inky blue mountains
scroll across the horizon
like a painted backdrop. A hollow wind blows
from the proscenium arch.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
NaPoWriMo #8
Today's prompt: "at first blush".
It wasn't until I did a search at dictionary.com that I found this phrase had a meaning I wasn't familiar with: "without previous knowledge or adequate consideration". I don't think it is used in New Zealand English. I was thinking more of the "first blush of dawn" and wondering how to avoid sentimentality.
I'm getting to the point of wondering why on earth I set out to do this. A poem a day? When I get up, go to work, come home, do housework and collapse tired into bed? I must be nuts! I couldn't possibly keep going if I worried about whether what I am writing is any good or not. I may or may not cringe when I come back to it after the month is over. Much of my working out is done in the car, or similar places. What seems like a good idea then tends to feel really stupid when I come to write it down. There's nothing to be done about that but to carry on regardless, I don't have time to stress about quality. Thank goodness for the prompts - even if I think I have nothing to say on a subject, it stops me dithering and changing my mind all day. The prompt is the prompt and that is that. (But I'm thinking of resorting to a few days of haiku, just to keep the count up).
At First Blush
1. The dawn, the rose bud,
the baby's chek.
2. The man who gives you this card
is an air raid warden. Lie down
on the floor and do exactly
as he tells you.
3. At first, blush. Later,
learn to join in.
4. She draws an "f" from the bag of tiles.
She changes "blush" to "flush"
From innocence to guilt. Or rage.
5. After the petals fall
the thorns, the blood.
It wasn't until I did a search at dictionary.com that I found this phrase had a meaning I wasn't familiar with: "without previous knowledge or adequate consideration". I don't think it is used in New Zealand English. I was thinking more of the "first blush of dawn" and wondering how to avoid sentimentality.
I'm getting to the point of wondering why on earth I set out to do this. A poem a day? When I get up, go to work, come home, do housework and collapse tired into bed? I must be nuts! I couldn't possibly keep going if I worried about whether what I am writing is any good or not. I may or may not cringe when I come back to it after the month is over. Much of my working out is done in the car, or similar places. What seems like a good idea then tends to feel really stupid when I come to write it down. There's nothing to be done about that but to carry on regardless, I don't have time to stress about quality. Thank goodness for the prompts - even if I think I have nothing to say on a subject, it stops me dithering and changing my mind all day. The prompt is the prompt and that is that. (But I'm thinking of resorting to a few days of haiku, just to keep the count up).
At First Blush
1. The dawn, the rose bud,
the baby's chek.
2. The man who gives you this card
is an air raid warden. Lie down
on the floor and do exactly
as he tells you.
3. At first, blush. Later,
learn to join in.
4. She draws an "f" from the bag of tiles.
She changes "blush" to "flush"
From innocence to guilt. Or rage.
5. After the petals fall
the thorns, the blood.
Monday, April 09, 2007
NaPoWriMo #7
Today's prompt: "leather"
(I have been reading Miroslav Holub's wonderful series of poems "The Minotaur")
The Minotaur to Theseus
Never trust a woman.
You don't need her magic
ball of thread. She wants it to entangle you,
not to guide you. Just keep your head,
and your left hand on the wall,
or your right, it doesn't matter,
as long as you're consistent.
Reverse hands, and you'll find your way
back out. I don't know why
I'm telling you this, since it will lead
to my death, most likely.
I'm not the monster they make me out
to be. No danger to anyone
bold enough to do anything
but cower in a trembling heap.
Just because I'm big and ugly, doesn't mean
I wouldn't be kind to old women
and small children, given half a chance.
The roaring? In another century
it will be motor bikes. I'm just another boy
trying to be a man, wearing a leather jacket
and trying to look tough.
(I have been reading Miroslav Holub's wonderful series of poems "The Minotaur")
The Minotaur to Theseus
Never trust a woman.
You don't need her magic
ball of thread. She wants it to entangle you,
not to guide you. Just keep your head,
and your left hand on the wall,
or your right, it doesn't matter,
as long as you're consistent.
Reverse hands, and you'll find your way
back out. I don't know why
I'm telling you this, since it will lead
to my death, most likely.
I'm not the monster they make me out
to be. No danger to anyone
bold enough to do anything
but cower in a trembling heap.
Just because I'm big and ugly, doesn't mean
I wouldn't be kind to old women
and small children, given half a chance.
The roaring? In another century
it will be motor bikes. I'm just another boy
trying to be a man, wearing a leather jacket
and trying to look tough.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
NaPoWriMo #6
Today's prompt at Poetry Thursday is "kneel"
The wave runs at the shore,
falls on its knees to kiss the sand
The sea brings offerings
a seaweed necklace, driftwood, shells
The land buries them deep
The sea erodes her boundaries,
grain by grain. The land
heaves herself up from the sea's depths.
What the sea once covered
becomes a mountain.
It is the age-old tussle of the littoral zone
but still the sea
writes love letters on the sand.
(I think maybe I am being a bit indulgent sneaking the worl "littoral" in there. It's a word I love, but I'm not sure that it makes the poem any better).
Only 24 days to go!
The wave runs at the shore,
falls on its knees to kiss the sand
The sea brings offerings
a seaweed necklace, driftwood, shells
The land buries them deep
The sea erodes her boundaries,
grain by grain. The land
heaves herself up from the sea's depths.
What the sea once covered
becomes a mountain.
It is the age-old tussle of the littoral zone
but still the sea
writes love letters on the sand.
(I think maybe I am being a bit indulgent sneaking the worl "littoral" in there. It's a word I love, but I'm not sure that it makes the poem any better).
Only 24 days to go!
Saturday, April 07, 2007
NaPoWriMo #5
"Don't mess with the muse"! - Feeling edgy yesterday, I headed off for a walk up the hill. As I walked, I calmed down and found myself composing in my head about half of the poem I had been trying to write based on the first daily prompt at Poetry Thursday - "absolve". As I joined in on these prompts a bit late, I had missed this one out earlier.
When I got back home I found dinner was nearly ready. I had gone over the lines so many times that I thought I would remember them, but of course when I came to put them down on paper later in the evening, I didn't remember them so well after all. I think I have just about recreated what I came up with. But it is a reminder to me, that the poetry muse demands that her ideas be paid attention - they should be noted down straight away.
"Absolve" to me is quite a formal word. I fell in love with the sound, and wanted to work in all of its rhymes. I didn't, quite, but I used a fair few of them. Of course formal rhyming poetry is really hard to do well, but I wanted to try. Trying to use the word at the end of a line, without changing it to "absolution", made it even harder. Despite the religious use of the word "absolution", I see "absolve" as being different to "forgive". "Absolve" to me means a declaration that there was no fault in the first place. Forgiveness is an acknowledgment of a fault before a release from the longterm effects of that fault.
(I really should come up with better titles than the word which is the prompt. But a poem a day is hard enough without worrying about titles).
Absolve
Low tide. Mudflats pockmarked by breathing holes
of hidden clams. A heron stalks. The slow revolve
of leaf fall, joining others to turn to silt
where tree trunks join reflected trees. They shatter and dissolve
as the wading heron lifts in flight, pissing as it goes.
This mud and shit is necessary beauty
- part of life - it's how all things evolve.
Whatever I have done, or failed to do
that lies between us unresolved
is as it is. I will not whine "it's not my fault",
may ask you to forgive me, but never to absolve.
(The photo is of the "Sugarloaf" - taken on my walk yesterday. Low cloud wreathes around the television transmitter tower while sunset streaks across the sky in the background).
Friday, April 06, 2007
NaPoWriMo #4
I've been looking forward to Easter, because it means four whole days of not going to work. What I still don't have, that I had before I was working fulltime, is great stretches of time when I'm in the house alone (or at least, alone except for one or two very quiet people). This weekend we have visitors. And we went over to my daughter's house for hot cross buns at lunchtime, and then everyone came back here for more hot cross buns for afternoon tea. Somehow I seem to have less poetry writing time than on those days when I know I have to get my daily poem posted before I leave for work in the morning.
The latest NaPoWriMo prompt at Poetry Thursday is "broken thread". This one has such obvious metaphorical connotations, that I wanted to see what else I can do with it. I came up with the following, that as far as I can see doesn't have a single metaphor anywhere. Everything is exactly what it is. Sometime, when I'm not pushing myself to produce a new poem every day, I'd like to push this one around some more and see if I can shape it into a rhyming (or almost rhyming) sonnet. I think it has that potential.
Broken Thread
Because he was born in poorer times, he saves
everything that can be mended. And because
he lives in richer times (time poor),
he hasn't mended any of it. A burnt-out
electric kettle, a toy truck with one wheel missing
(the children long since grown, and in no hurry
to produce children of their own). In the garden shed
lies timber, wire, electric plugs, old tins
of paint - one day he'll use these things
to fix something, he's sure of that. Meanwhile
in a chest in a corner of the spare room, there's more
- old letters tied with string, a child's shoe,
a necklace of pearls on a broken thread
less valued for what they are
than what once (long ago) they meant.
The latest NaPoWriMo prompt at Poetry Thursday is "broken thread". This one has such obvious metaphorical connotations, that I wanted to see what else I can do with it. I came up with the following, that as far as I can see doesn't have a single metaphor anywhere. Everything is exactly what it is. Sometime, when I'm not pushing myself to produce a new poem every day, I'd like to push this one around some more and see if I can shape it into a rhyming (or almost rhyming) sonnet. I think it has that potential.
Broken Thread
Because he was born in poorer times, he saves
everything that can be mended. And because
he lives in richer times (time poor),
he hasn't mended any of it. A burnt-out
electric kettle, a toy truck with one wheel missing
(the children long since grown, and in no hurry
to produce children of their own). In the garden shed
lies timber, wire, electric plugs, old tins
of paint - one day he'll use these things
to fix something, he's sure of that. Meanwhile
in a chest in a corner of the spare room, there's more
- old letters tied with string, a child's shoe,
a necklace of pearls on a broken thread
less valued for what they are
than what once (long ago) they meant.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Poetry Thursday: Interview with a Poet
In Bernadette Hall's book, "The Ponies", I came across a poem with the following lines:
Did I tell you that since her death the only people
I can bear to read are the beautiful Czechs?
It must be their weight and their sardonic wit
This led me to seek out the Czechs. I am currently reading a book of poems by Miroslav Holub, "Notes of a Clay Pigeon". In it I found the following poem. This is not quite what Dana and Liz had in mind, no doubt, when they asked us to write a letter to a poet, but it seemed similar to me. I had plans originally to write a poem of my own on the theme, but I have been busy with the daily prompts for NaPoWriMo. So if you would like to read some of my own poetry (rough first drafts anyway - one a day is hard), just check out my other daily posts.
Interview with a Poet
You are a poet? Yes, I am.
How do you know?
I have written a poem.
When you wrote the poem, it means you were a poet. But now?
I shall write another poem some day.
Then you may again be a poet. But how will you know that it
really is a poem?
It will be just like the last one.
In that case it will certainly not be a poem. A poem exists
only once - it cannot be the same again.
I mean it will be just as good.
But you cannot mean that. The goodness of a poem exists only
once and does not depend on you but on circumstances.
I imagine the circumstances will be the same.
If that is your opinion, you never were a poet and never will
be. Why then do you think you are a poet?
Well, I really don't know...
But who are you?
- Miroslav Holub
More Poetry Thursday here
Did I tell you that since her death the only people
I can bear to read are the beautiful Czechs?
It must be their weight and their sardonic wit
This led me to seek out the Czechs. I am currently reading a book of poems by Miroslav Holub, "Notes of a Clay Pigeon". In it I found the following poem. This is not quite what Dana and Liz had in mind, no doubt, when they asked us to write a letter to a poet, but it seemed similar to me. I had plans originally to write a poem of my own on the theme, but I have been busy with the daily prompts for NaPoWriMo. So if you would like to read some of my own poetry (rough first drafts anyway - one a day is hard), just check out my other daily posts.
Interview with a Poet
You are a poet? Yes, I am.
How do you know?
I have written a poem.
When you wrote the poem, it means you were a poet. But now?
I shall write another poem some day.
Then you may again be a poet. But how will you know that it
really is a poem?
It will be just like the last one.
In that case it will certainly not be a poem. A poem exists
only once - it cannot be the same again.
I mean it will be just as good.
But you cannot mean that. The goodness of a poem exists only
once and does not depend on you but on circumstances.
I imagine the circumstances will be the same.
If that is your opinion, you never were a poet and never will
be. Why then do you think you are a poet?
Well, I really don't know...
But who are you?
- Miroslav Holub
More Poetry Thursday here
NaPoWriMo #3
The fourth NaPoWriMo prompt at Poetry Thursday: yield
Yield
The rock to the water
the cement to the grass
the shell to the insistent beak
the carcass to the maggott
the bridge to the storm
the rose to the aphid
the aphid to the ladybug
the ladybug to the first frost of autumn
the frost to the noon sun
everything yields
if it were not so
we should all be stopped
in a single frame of a movie,
so let us sit a while and listen,
let us yield
to the soft flow of the air
filling our lungs, to our bodies
turning to dust,
to the approaching dark.
Yield
The rock to the water
the cement to the grass
the shell to the insistent beak
the carcass to the maggott
the bridge to the storm
the rose to the aphid
the aphid to the ladybug
the ladybug to the first frost of autumn
the frost to the noon sun
everything yields
if it were not so
we should all be stopped
in a single frame of a movie,
so let us sit a while and listen,
let us yield
to the soft flow of the air
filling our lungs, to our bodies
turning to dust,
to the approaching dark.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
NaPoWriMo #2
From the third prompt at Poetry Thursday : perennial
Perennial
You have planted a garden
of bitter herbs, of everything
that has spines and thorns.
You are bored even with the colours
of your happiness. You want flowers
of different hues. You are moving
to another part of town. Do not expect
things to be different there. You carry
your seeds with you: in your hair,
under your fingernails, caught in the folds
of your desires. With every exhalation
they shower onto the earth.
Perennial
You have planted a garden
of bitter herbs, of everything
that has spines and thorns.
You are bored even with the colours
of your happiness. You want flowers
of different hues. You are moving
to another part of town. Do not expect
things to be different there. You carry
your seeds with you: in your hair,
under your fingernails, caught in the folds
of your desires. With every exhalation
they shower onto the earth.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
NaPoWriMo #1
I'm running a little late to get started on this. And what I thought was going to work out while I was driving in my car has fled my brain now that I've found time to sit with a pen and paper. The idea of NaPoWriMo is to write a poem a day during April - I feel that if I can write thirty poems, whether one a day, or none some days with a catch-up at the weekends, that will be good enough for me. And that establishing a regular writing habit will be far more valuable than actually producing something I like.
Here is the first very rough draft based on the second of the daily prompts at Poetry Thursday : "spiral"
A Spiral is the Shortest Distance Between Two Points
How efficient you have become, rising
in the dark and leaving early to avoid
traffic. You have searched out
the most direct route, studied intersections
to find the easiest turns. All day
you will add numbers, balance the books.
You have calculated the easiest curve
around the park. The joggers are always there,
but this is unexpected, beyond the trees
and their long shadows, a flock of white gulls
wheeling and looping in the early light.
Here is the first very rough draft based on the second of the daily prompts at Poetry Thursday : "spiral"
A Spiral is the Shortest Distance Between Two Points
How efficient you have become, rising
in the dark and leaving early to avoid
traffic. You have searched out
the most direct route, studied intersections
to find the easiest turns. All day
you will add numbers, balance the books.
You have calculated the easiest curve
around the park. The joggers are always there,
but this is unexpected, beyond the trees
and their long shadows, a flock of white gulls
wheeling and looping in the early light.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Take a Walk With Me #5
Last Saturday, I took a long walk. This Saturday, I'm being domestic. It's a beautiful warm autumn day. I have two loads of laundry on the line. I'm getting my exercise by sweeping and mopping floors, vacuuming and generally tidying up. My pedometer broke months ago, but I'd guarantee that I've walked enough steps to get in my daily quote of exercise, and then some more. I'm enjoying little things. Like my new electric jug. It replaces the one given to us for a wedding present. That one was a fine long-lasting stainless steel jug, but it was built in the days before they came with a built-in shut off. Every so often I'd leave the room for a minute while it was boiling and forget to come back for a while - which resulted in a burnt-out element. This time I planned to replace the element, but I found that it would cost as much as a new jug. Furthermore the plug was no longer legal, so should the cord need replacing I wouldn't be able to. The new jugs come all in one. If the element goes, there's nothing to do but throw it out. I have deep reservations about this from an environmental point of view, but at least the jug turns itself off when it comes to the boil. Which means I am far less likely to return to a steam-filled kitchen and a burnt-out element.
Oh, and then there is drinking coffee from my favourite mug from Happy Hens.
In the meantime, here are more photos of last week's walk.
After High St, I arrived at Cathedral Square which is the centre of the city. There is an area in the city which is promoted as the "Cultural Precinct". It includes the cathedral, library, museum, art galleries and the historic tram which takes a tourist route around the central city. All these attractions were having an open day last Saturday, which was one of the reasons I went into the city. Of course, by the time I had got there I was getting tired! I estimate it would have been about a one hour walk, but I kept stopping to take photos and browse in shops, so I was on my feet for more than three hours.
This is the spire of the Anglican Cathedral. Usually they charge five dollars to climb the tower steps - there is a fantastic view from the top. Last Saturday it was free. I had planned to make the climb, but by the time I got there I looked up, listened to my feet talking to me, and decided "been there, done that".
The various attractions of the Cultural Precinct were marked for the day by these huge red inflated balls. I was about to take a photo when the young girl came up to give it a push. (She did move it a few feet, though it was rather wisely tethered by a chain).
Often at the weekend there is a game of chess going on in the Square using these huge chess pieces.
Almost at the end of my walk now - I will post the final few tomorrow and then I will have to think of something else to post about!
Oh, and then there is drinking coffee from my favourite mug from Happy Hens.
In the meantime, here are more photos of last week's walk.
After High St, I arrived at Cathedral Square which is the centre of the city. There is an area in the city which is promoted as the "Cultural Precinct". It includes the cathedral, library, museum, art galleries and the historic tram which takes a tourist route around the central city. All these attractions were having an open day last Saturday, which was one of the reasons I went into the city. Of course, by the time I had got there I was getting tired! I estimate it would have been about a one hour walk, but I kept stopping to take photos and browse in shops, so I was on my feet for more than three hours.
This is the spire of the Anglican Cathedral. Usually they charge five dollars to climb the tower steps - there is a fantastic view from the top. Last Saturday it was free. I had planned to make the climb, but by the time I got there I looked up, listened to my feet talking to me, and decided "been there, done that".
The various attractions of the Cultural Precinct were marked for the day by these huge red inflated balls. I was about to take a photo when the young girl came up to give it a push. (She did move it a few feet, though it was rather wisely tethered by a chain).
Often at the weekend there is a game of chess going on in the Square using these huge chess pieces.
Almost at the end of my walk now - I will post the final few tomorrow and then I will have to think of something else to post about!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Poetry Thursday: More Image Inspired Poetry
I seem to have jumped the gun on the Poetry Thursday prompt. Last week we were asked to write poems inspired by images, and I posted a poem inspired by a Picasso painting. This week we were asked to take it one step further, and try a poem based on a painting - perhaps specifically from the point of view of the model or the painter - what were they thinking? Since that's what I did last week, this week I am posting the poem that was my alternate choice for last week's prompt.
I am happy to say that I was talking to the poetry editor of Takahe magazine at a poetry reading last night, and asked him about his definition of "previously unpublished". I've now established that it's OK for me to submit poems that have been on my blog. Some journals won't accept them. Since Takahe is the only literary journal that has ever published my poems, I now know I can post my poems here and still have at least one possible place to submit them. (Being on the staff probably helps - I do the accounts).
This poem was inspired by a number of things I saw in one particular week. I thought the fence photo showed the name of the fence strainers, but when I checked it didn't show up. Strainrite is the brand name.
(Poem taken down for publication reasons)
I am happy to say that I was talking to the poetry editor of Takahe magazine at a poetry reading last night, and asked him about his definition of "previously unpublished". I've now established that it's OK for me to submit poems that have been on my blog. Some journals won't accept them. Since Takahe is the only literary journal that has ever published my poems, I now know I can post my poems here and still have at least one possible place to submit them. (Being on the staff probably helps - I do the accounts).
This poem was inspired by a number of things I saw in one particular week. I thought the fence photo showed the name of the fence strainers, but when I checked it didn't show up. Strainrite is the brand name.
(Poem taken down for publication reasons)
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