Friday, April 18, 2014

NaPoWriMo Days 16 & 17

Day 16  10 lines, each line a lie


The sky is blue all over
It’s 42 degrees
The wind vane is unmoving
The clothesline is whizzing
In the breeze

My printer has not run out of ink
It’s simply having a nap
I’ve got nothing to write about
In fact, I’m a tree that has
lost all its sap.

Day 17  use at least 3 senses to describe something

The Great Outdoors

Heard through a constant hissing in my ears
the background hum and roar of Easter travellers
on the Freeway. Seen filtered through glass lenses
dull green trees and bushes circling
like brushes on drums, percussion to the wind’s
sighing song. The tastelessness of rain.

Poetic Asides Days 16 & 17

Day 16  an elegy

What is Survival Anyway?

I don’t believe in death.
And I’m not so sure about
“the way things change
the more they stay the same”
because there you were
in a photograph exactly
the way you always were
and, as always, no longer
with us but somewhere
in your own point of view.

And what about the hundreds
of travellers now in the news
and at the same time
at the bottom of oceans?

It would be useful to know
one way or another
if all the dead are elsewhere
waiting for us to join them
in a very pleasant country.

Personally, I’d prefer to be
like the third Silver Princess
in my yard – cut to the quick
one day, dying from borers,
now bushy, with new tips,
half as tall as the old lady
of the tribe next to her, three
tiny gumnuts budding.

Not old or strong enough
to support perching birds,
yet she inspires me with
the possibility of regeneration:
same roots, new expression.

Day 17  pop culture

Pop Up Art

Sometimes the train travels so fast, the sides of stationary grain transporters
are a blur of tags and cartoon characters speaking from the urban diaspora.
They make beautifully rounded canvasses; clearly the designs are well-considered,
reflecting the opportunity of democratic artistic display on government property.
We, however, are pilgrims to the shrine of Private and Major Galleries, seeking
the perfect piece of flat serious Art to complement our flat down-lit walls.
We may lift our eyes to the messages on grain transport carriages, but they
remain incomprehensible, a blur of unrecognisable signatures and figures.

Poetic Asides Day 14 & 15

Day 14  if I were …

If I Were A Nineteenth Century Cartographer

What fun I would have!
First I would follow the Explorer
and discover not every piece
of territory is charmingly girt by sea.

I would point out to kings
and emperors the merits of lines
that follow watersheds and rivers.
I would paint in the colours.

I would subdue the riotous
and divide tribes, even villages.
What an art! To promote
the economy of Nationhood.

At one with the wild beasts
who wander freely across borders
I’d limit the world for others, knowing
my creation will be their posterity.

Day 15   Love/Anti Love

The Anti-Love Stance

Who needs love?
I need more time.
To write, create,
rhythm & rhyme.

Who needs love?
They’re all the same.
They’re on the prowl
& you’re fair game.

Who needs love?
Investors? Crooks?
The Prime Minister
however HE looks.

I’ve heard love’s an answer
I read a lot of books.
So maybe they’re to blame.
For a world full of sooks.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Poetic Asides Days 11, 12 & 13

Day 11 A Statement

A nation built on immigration

Driving home
I catch the twinkling
eyes of stars.
They watch us
come and go
arrive and leave
slam doors
and greet with
open arms.
Distant enough
to remain detached
they do not call
our movement
“waves” or “escape”
nor our individual
selves “refugee”
“expatriate”, “migrant”
“asylum seeker”.
The stories do not
move the stars
to tears or rage.
They simply continue
to travel, as we do.

Day 12 a city poem

With the Best Intentions

The train belted along.
We were bundled into the city
with an urgency we didn’t need.

We strolled through laneways.
We could have eaten food from
a multitude of nations. We chose

gourmet Italian and had no time
for coffee. We needed to get somewhere.
We were meeting friends & strangers.

The city flung its glass tresses at
the cloudless sky, and left us in
darkness, down here at the feet

which were hard and hard-wearing.
We ached just with the strain of standing
and just had to sit, watch the parade

coffee at last driving blood through
elderly hearts and bloodlines, even
though we paid dearly for the day.

With an urgency we welcomed
we were propelled out of the city.
The train belted along

and we slept most of the journey home.

Day 13 an animal poem

A Conservation Corridor

Just out there, where the ferns
leave earth and reach into a mighty universe
if only they could break through
shade cloth,

and where the ground covers
were burnt on those forty-five degree and more
days to the colour of dung,
the mouse crosses.

Not always when I’m looking,
of course, so the thrill is greater catching
a brief glimpse. I know nothing about
real mice, whether

he or she lives alone, has bred like rabbits,
has found a niche in the slab
or created an empire under the deck
sealed off from cats.

Nondescript, yet I see “it” as “she”, making
a necessary journey across a pebbled
path, or boulders, if you are
small enough.

Otherwise, she lives a secret existence,
she’s a mystery; all I know is
the world alters slightly when
she crosses my path.