Showing posts with label off the cuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label off the cuff. Show all posts
Sunday, May 2, 2010
One Challenge Ends, Another Begins
I can't imagine going a day without writing something poetic, so I'm going to set up the prompts for May like this: each day, I find a word at random in my Budget Macquarie Dictionary under a different letter of the alphabet and use that word as a starting point. I will start with A and my word is "aggregate" and also today will do B - the word is "blubber". I notice immediately that I may not like the words I'm given, but that's always been the challenge for us on-the-spotters/off-the-cuffers :-) Join me if you wish; otherwise, just enjoy.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Off the Cuff 30: Meditations on Letting Go & Gratitude
APAD 30 prompt: "letting go"
Meditations on Letting Go
1.
Low weak sun insists
we let go of summer
let winter squeeze through
curtain gaps.
2.
Last night, driving,
my father's hands reaching
through time's curtain; I still
regret not being there
to hold them.
3.
And where is my daughter
going? Come back, my hands
implore, stay young, stay
home, stay smiling.
She massages my head
and hands. She smiles.
And yet, she is going.
4.
My worst nightmare
involved being on high dry land
hundreds of feet above ground
all around me the drop:
I would stop the fall through
sheer will. Why not let go?
5.
Why not let go?
Regret makes you
slow. To be fast
don't fasten, hasten
just let go
of the past.
Good advice to self
so often shelved.
6.
My mother tells me
the newspaper reports
at least one hundred and seventy
people, mostly women, of course
aged over the century are
alive in our state, Victoria.
My mother, almost eighty-four
aims to reach the dizzy heights
not let go of life, be
one of the select
to reach her centenary, and like
Agave americana, bloom again.
7,
Ferns and herbs renew.
Birth, maturity, death
for the rest of us.
Gratitude
you, plump
artefact of desire
you over-ripe melon
you soft sac:
so happy I didn't
lose you to
surgeon's cuts
happy to feel you
floppy survivor
feel your painful
reminders yet
feel the lack of
weight, absence
which makes my heart
grow fonder
feel free to take you
to bed, free
of the fear
breast
cancer bred.
NaPoWriMo 30
Meditations on Letting Go
1.
Low weak sun insists
we let go of summer
let winter squeeze through
curtain gaps.
2.
Last night, driving,
my father's hands reaching
through time's curtain; I still
regret not being there
to hold them.
3.
And where is my daughter
going? Come back, my hands
implore, stay young, stay
home, stay smiling.
She massages my head
and hands. She smiles.
And yet, she is going.
4.
My worst nightmare
involved being on high dry land
hundreds of feet above ground
all around me the drop:
I would stop the fall through
sheer will. Why not let go?
5.
Why not let go?
Regret makes you
slow. To be fast
don't fasten, hasten
just let go
of the past.
Good advice to self
so often shelved.
6.
My mother tells me
the newspaper reports
at least one hundred and seventy
people, mostly women, of course
aged over the century are
alive in our state, Victoria.
My mother, almost eighty-four
aims to reach the dizzy heights
not let go of life, be
one of the select
to reach her centenary, and like
Agave americana, bloom again.
7,
Ferns and herbs renew.
Birth, maturity, death
for the rest of us.
Gratitude
you, plump
artefact of desire
you over-ripe melon
you soft sac:
so happy I didn't
lose you to
surgeon's cuts
happy to feel you
floppy survivor
feel your painful
reminders yet
feel the lack of
weight, absence
which makes my heart
grow fonder
feel free to take you
to bed, free
of the fear
breast
cancer bred.
NaPoWriMo 30
Friday, April 30, 2010
Off the Cuff 29: And suddenly working & Autumn etc
APAD 29 prompt: "And suddenly __________"
And suddenly working
One hour after I first press
the button to switch on power
my computer stops wheezing
and freezing and shutting
me out.
I've booted up
four times! That's like
four kicks up the butt,
but no sign of bruises. I sit here
hissing and snarling, sighing
and tutting until ...
I feel like kissing! As fingers
peck freely, and mouse clicks
skittishly, I put my catty paw
over the small silver mouse
begin to play with it.
Autumn (season), Bacchus Marsh (town)
Victoria (State) Australia (Country)
First mist of the season:
blurred views as I drive fast
homeward, nine in the evening.
A scatter of osage oranges
in Fisken Street, always inedible,
always a work of art, their falling.
Winter lettuces planted out
green and maroon in perfect
rows on several hectares.
The elms, which couldn't care less,
yellowing and stripping unwanted
summer attire. The subject
of complaints from those who
prefer traffic congestion through town
to redesigned roadways.
Inland, we've started keeping
the heating on until mid-evening.
Aeroplane lights white stars.
This is a photograph of one town
west of Melbourne where climate
is said to be "Mediterranean"
There's no sea. Our seasons
are agricultural, rural. But listen,
winter gales approach with stealth.
NaPoWriMo 29
And suddenly working
One hour after I first press
the button to switch on power
my computer stops wheezing
and freezing and shutting
me out.
I've booted up
four times! That's like
four kicks up the butt,
but no sign of bruises. I sit here
hissing and snarling, sighing
and tutting until ...
I feel like kissing! As fingers
peck freely, and mouse clicks
skittishly, I put my catty paw
over the small silver mouse
begin to play with it.
Autumn (season), Bacchus Marsh (town)
Victoria (State) Australia (Country)
First mist of the season:
blurred views as I drive fast
homeward, nine in the evening.
A scatter of osage oranges
in Fisken Street, always inedible,
always a work of art, their falling.
Winter lettuces planted out
green and maroon in perfect
rows on several hectares.
The elms, which couldn't care less,
yellowing and stripping unwanted
summer attire. The subject
of complaints from those who
prefer traffic congestion through town
to redesigned roadways.
Inland, we've started keeping
the heating on until mid-evening.
Aeroplane lights white stars.
This is a photograph of one town
west of Melbourne where climate
is said to be "Mediterranean"
There's no sea. Our seasons
are agricultural, rural. But listen,
winter gales approach with stealth.
NaPoWriMo 29
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Off the Cuff 28: End of the Line & The Letter-Thieves
APAD 28 prompt: an 'end of the line' poem
End of the Line
It's the end of the line
for us. From here, it's car
or bus. The train continues
to other towns. And comes
from distant termini; we board
to gathering of personal items
and frowns. The times our train
stops at our station, I watch
with avid eye the transformation
from busy passenger container
to shunted overnight retainer.
I love the grey and red vans
parking very fast; I don't admire
the heavy reds that trundle past.
The Sprinters and the V-Line
Fast Trains leave me somewhat
breathless; for them to terminate
here would be feckless. But often
from the platform my avid eye
creates our country town
as Queen of the Termini.
The Letter-Thieves
Who are the letter-thieves?
Those reckless hands whose
existence shows up in
what's missing? Who takes
those L's and E's and R's
from innocent words
headline signs, the proprietary
nomenclature on truck doors?
"Bilinger" proclaimed
on back side of sixteen-wheeler
made into a cockney elision:
Bi inger on driver's door.
I saw it as I drove on traffic-
weighted bridge, and wondered:
who collects? to what use
are random letters put?
At work, my boyish colleagues
animate: "I used to steal the
street signs, I was seventeen,
it was FUN!" "I shoplifted
one bandaid, once. And didn't
get away with it." Perhaps
the thieves are masters of
deconstruction, proving language
is easily broken, disempowered.
Or are those letters jumping off
the walls and truck doors to which
they've been attached? Presented
with the idea of choice? Or realising,
their liaisons with other letters
are mismatched?
NaPoWriMo 28
End of the Line
It's the end of the line
for us. From here, it's car
or bus. The train continues
to other towns. And comes
from distant termini; we board
to gathering of personal items
and frowns. The times our train
stops at our station, I watch
with avid eye the transformation
from busy passenger container
to shunted overnight retainer.
I love the grey and red vans
parking very fast; I don't admire
the heavy reds that trundle past.
The Sprinters and the V-Line
Fast Trains leave me somewhat
breathless; for them to terminate
here would be feckless. But often
from the platform my avid eye
creates our country town
as Queen of the Termini.
The Letter-Thieves
Who are the letter-thieves?
Those reckless hands whose
existence shows up in
what's missing? Who takes
those L's and E's and R's
from innocent words
headline signs, the proprietary
nomenclature on truck doors?
"Bilinger" proclaimed
on back side of sixteen-wheeler
made into a cockney elision:
Bi inger on driver's door.
I saw it as I drove on traffic-
weighted bridge, and wondered:
who collects? to what use
are random letters put?
At work, my boyish colleagues
animate: "I used to steal the
street signs, I was seventeen,
it was FUN!" "I shoplifted
one bandaid, once. And didn't
get away with it." Perhaps
the thieves are masters of
deconstruction, proving language
is easily broken, disempowered.
Or are those letters jumping off
the walls and truck doors to which
they've been attached? Presented
with the idea of choice? Or realising,
their liaisons with other letters
are mismatched?
NaPoWriMo 28
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Off the Cuff 27: Here's Hoping and The Game
APAD 27 prompt: 2 for Tuesday - a hopeful poem or a hopeless poem
Here's Hoping
When will come the day
human beings do what they say?
Yes, know how to play it:
that to create is to say it.
A universal commitment
to honouring our word?
How absurd! But this game
is all we've got - it's the box,
the dice, the lot!
Imagine placing your word
on the board, have it heard,
and the time that you'll keep it
we'd just get a peep at
the power of trust, freedom, respect
and the rewards all of us collect.
The Game
How was your Games Day?
I ask my Mum. Good! she says
brightening. She says only Pat came
to play the Scrabble. I say, Great.
I don't ask: Did you win?
I say: Must dash off to work
(what a jerk!)
I add: Must go because I'm
leaving early today, for choir.
Her face perplexed.
My communication sets a standard
for osmotic thought she should
just ignore.
Better we stick to words
that interlock, or
better still, run side by side,
adding up to a Good Score.
NaPoWriMo 27
Here's Hoping
When will come the day
human beings do what they say?
Yes, know how to play it:
that to create is to say it.
A universal commitment
to honouring our word?
How absurd! But this game
is all we've got - it's the box,
the dice, the lot!
Imagine placing your word
on the board, have it heard,
and the time that you'll keep it
we'd just get a peep at
the power of trust, freedom, respect
and the rewards all of us collect.
The Game
How was your Games Day?
I ask my Mum. Good! she says
brightening. She says only Pat came
to play the Scrabble. I say, Great.
I don't ask: Did you win?
I say: Must dash off to work
(what a jerk!)
I add: Must go because I'm
leaving early today, for choir.
Her face perplexed.
My communication sets a standard
for osmotic thought she should
just ignore.
Better we stick to words
that interlock, or
better still, run side by side,
adding up to a Good Score.
NaPoWriMo 27
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Off the Cuff 26: More than five times & Have You Had a Good Life?
APAD 26 prompt: "more than 5 times"
More than five times
I am running with a china egg
on a silver dessertspoon
and I come second to my best friend
Anne whose long legs make
being an egg-and-spoon race
winner easier. Anyway, my egg
didn't fall off the spoon. I couldn't
do it now: holding the spoon
in my teeth rooted in calcium-poor
jaws - no. Keeping my chin up
and neck back like an ibis
or pelican in flight - no. Feeling
the weight of that solid china: oh!
But over the years I have re-run
that race like a movie on a reel
focussed on my style, in still
frames, practising and practising
way more than five times, giving
myself the olympian's role, swift
as a swallow, streaking ahead
of my best friend Anne.
Have You Had a Good Life?
(a question asked by a listener on Life Matters,
ABC National, on a Tuesday evening,
chatting about writing a book on it)
Have I had a good life?
I look at photos of trees
a forest on fire, flood-lines
above their knees, a sense
of uneasiness, utter aloneness.
I read many bush stories
collected pen pals overseas.
I look at family photos, of
wedding anniversaries, birthdays,
friends, and relatives from
the British Isles, visitors
and ceremonies. Sitting
as far away from Him as I can.
I re-read letters from myself
the traveller to them at home.
I survived storms at sea
being suspected of terrorism
flights where bits fell off planes
or petrol caps were forgotten
I survived living in a haven
for guerrilla fighters, disdain
for my skin colour, bombings,
being suspected of terrorism
cholera plague and syphilis
and being heartbroken.
I chose single parenting
over boredom and struggle
wrote poetry for a living
took the kids to foreign
countries, tours of Australia,
and moved house often.
Worked to make a difference
have people believe they could
be the agent of change, enable
community development,
engagement, clear the way
for the future generations.
Not easy! Distances and
discoveries, art and the art
of survival, always finding
new ways of living adventurously.
Yes, I've had a good life.
Who will I have to be tomorrow?
NaPoWriMo 26
More than five times
I am running with a china egg
on a silver dessertspoon
and I come second to my best friend
Anne whose long legs make
being an egg-and-spoon race
winner easier. Anyway, my egg
didn't fall off the spoon. I couldn't
do it now: holding the spoon
in my teeth rooted in calcium-poor
jaws - no. Keeping my chin up
and neck back like an ibis
or pelican in flight - no. Feeling
the weight of that solid china: oh!
But over the years I have re-run
that race like a movie on a reel
focussed on my style, in still
frames, practising and practising
way more than five times, giving
myself the olympian's role, swift
as a swallow, streaking ahead
of my best friend Anne.
Have You Had a Good Life?
(a question asked by a listener on Life Matters,
ABC National, on a Tuesday evening,
chatting about writing a book on it)
Have I had a good life?
I look at photos of trees
a forest on fire, flood-lines
above their knees, a sense
of uneasiness, utter aloneness.
I read many bush stories
collected pen pals overseas.
I look at family photos, of
wedding anniversaries, birthdays,
friends, and relatives from
the British Isles, visitors
and ceremonies. Sitting
as far away from Him as I can.
I re-read letters from myself
the traveller to them at home.
I survived storms at sea
being suspected of terrorism
flights where bits fell off planes
or petrol caps were forgotten
I survived living in a haven
for guerrilla fighters, disdain
for my skin colour, bombings,
being suspected of terrorism
cholera plague and syphilis
and being heartbroken.
I chose single parenting
over boredom and struggle
wrote poetry for a living
took the kids to foreign
countries, tours of Australia,
and moved house often.
Worked to make a difference
have people believe they could
be the agent of change, enable
community development,
engagement, clear the way
for the future generations.
Not easy! Distances and
discoveries, art and the art
of survival, always finding
new ways of living adventurously.
Yes, I've had a good life.
Who will I have to be tomorrow?
NaPoWriMo 26
Monday, April 26, 2010
Off the Cuff 25: We Are Marching & The Galahs
APAD 25 prompt: a poem inspired by a song
Song: Siyahamba (We are Marching) - a gospel tune, songwriter unknown
We are marching in the streets today
We are marching in the streets
today
We are marching, parching
We are touching yay!
We are marching in the streets today.
We are living unsustainably
We are living
unsustainably
We are living, giving
We are thieving, oh
We are living unsustainably.
We are moving without power or love
We are moving without power
or love
We are moving, grooving
We are striving, yeh
We are moving without power or love.
We are marching, living
We are moving, but
We are stuck in problem-answer mass
We are marching, living
We are moving, AND
we are suffocating in our trash.
The Galahs
The two of them
with heads cocked
about to launch
off the roof
no doubt to grub
out the roots
in several chosen
back yards.
Or considering
another round
of powerline
swinging, an
opportunity just to
have fun, cackle.
NaPoWriMo 25
Song: Siyahamba (We are Marching) - a gospel tune, songwriter unknown
We are marching in the streets today
We are marching in the streets
today
We are marching, parching
We are touching yay!
We are marching in the streets today.
We are living unsustainably
We are living
unsustainably
We are living, giving
We are thieving, oh
We are living unsustainably.
We are moving without power or love
We are moving without power
or love
We are moving, grooving
We are striving, yeh
We are moving without power or love.
We are marching, living
We are moving, but
We are stuck in problem-answer mass
We are marching, living
We are moving, AND
we are suffocating in our trash.
The Galahs
The two of them
with heads cocked
about to launch
off the roof
no doubt to grub
out the roots
in several chosen
back yards.
Or considering
another round
of powerline
swinging, an
opportunity just to
have fun, cackle.
NaPoWriMo 25
Off the Cuff 24: Driving East & Earthenware
APAD 24 prompt: an evening poem
Driving East
Sun behind us only
briefly dazzles in mirrors.
We have counted
four hawks hovering
and wonder whether
they're fixed on
mouse or lizard.
Now the sun retires -
through pastel light the birds -
magpies, black birds, galahs in pairs
swiftly, silently aim for shelter
in blackened bushes, trees.
We continue crossing
their paths, our eyes
fixed on town lights,
white lines, other vehicles
the future, the darkness
beyond headlights.
Earthenware
The more disguised you are
the more functional you become.
I pick you up, weigh the value
your fragility, capacity to bear
loads, temporary or long-term.
At thirty years old, you, clay pot
hold firm, still shining, still unchipped.
In you I placed the small statue
a cross-legged tobacco seller
whose brittle limbs broke off.
Protection: like a mind which draws
a curtain around experience, the pieces.
I make good use of mugs, bowls, pots
for plants, all made in China or by
craftspeople around this country.
Clay pots with obvious origin
in hands, from women gathering
at roadsides, sitting on one hip
on the ground in a group, holding out
their wares, are another species.
Made to earn money for education
they bear the future for all women
all families whose hunger rises
like steam on an outdoor wood fire
where there is nothing to eat.
When it rains here in my country
is that steam, evaporated, watering
my verdant garden, its herbs
growing from clay, mulched to
prevent being baked hard, glazed?
NaPoWriMo 24
Driving East
Sun behind us only
briefly dazzles in mirrors.
We have counted
four hawks hovering
and wonder whether
they're fixed on
mouse or lizard.
Now the sun retires -
through pastel light the birds -
magpies, black birds, galahs in pairs
swiftly, silently aim for shelter
in blackened bushes, trees.
We continue crossing
their paths, our eyes
fixed on town lights,
white lines, other vehicles
the future, the darkness
beyond headlights.
Earthenware
The more disguised you are
the more functional you become.
I pick you up, weigh the value
your fragility, capacity to bear
loads, temporary or long-term.
At thirty years old, you, clay pot
hold firm, still shining, still unchipped.
In you I placed the small statue
a cross-legged tobacco seller
whose brittle limbs broke off.
Protection: like a mind which draws
a curtain around experience, the pieces.
I make good use of mugs, bowls, pots
for plants, all made in China or by
craftspeople around this country.
Clay pots with obvious origin
in hands, from women gathering
at roadsides, sitting on one hip
on the ground in a group, holding out
their wares, are another species.
Made to earn money for education
they bear the future for all women
all families whose hunger rises
like steam on an outdoor wood fire
where there is nothing to eat.
When it rains here in my country
is that steam, evaporated, watering
my verdant garden, its herbs
growing from clay, mulched to
prevent being baked hard, glazed?
NaPoWriMo 24
Off the Cuff 23: Exhausted & Earth's Problem
APAD 23 prompt: exhaustion
Exhausted just thinking about it.
Can Poetry Save the Planet?
Sparking a lively debate:
How many words will that take?
How many activists? How many
books can you not make?
Exhausted talking it through.
What, after all, can we do
that hasn't been tried? How
many, in trying, have died?
Save the Planet for what?
And from whom? Are we
saying there's just not enough
room? Or something is wrong?
On the rapids we're carried along.
The Kiwi brings light to the gloom.
We agree there's no answer, happily.
Exhausted just being with doom.
We exit to find
the next chat-room.
Earth's Problem
I love the way you spit and sputter
no doubt if I listened
I'd hear you mutter
about being third from the Sun
and the only one
who has to put up with our clutter.
You grumble and spew -
yes, nothing is new -
it's all recycled matter.
You break rock down to soil
bring lava to the boil
but never get thinner or fatter.
In hail, snow, plain rain
you go green again - but
you don't care if parts of you
fry
for unless there is news
or at least some more clues
you're still on your own, wet or dry.
NaPoWriMo 23
Exhausted just thinking about it.
Can Poetry Save the Planet?
Sparking a lively debate:
How many words will that take?
How many activists? How many
books can you not make?
Exhausted talking it through.
What, after all, can we do
that hasn't been tried? How
many, in trying, have died?
Save the Planet for what?
And from whom? Are we
saying there's just not enough
room? Or something is wrong?
On the rapids we're carried along.
The Kiwi brings light to the gloom.
We agree there's no answer, happily.
Exhausted just being with doom.
We exit to find
the next chat-room.
Earth's Problem
I love the way you spit and sputter
no doubt if I listened
I'd hear you mutter
about being third from the Sun
and the only one
who has to put up with our clutter.
You grumble and spew -
yes, nothing is new -
it's all recycled matter.
You break rock down to soil
bring lava to the boil
but never get thinner or fatter.
In hail, snow, plain rain
you go green again - but
you don't care if parts of you
fry
for unless there is news
or at least some more clues
you're still on your own, wet or dry.
NaPoWriMo 23
Off the Cuff 22: Earthly Concerns & The Massive Comb-Over
APAD 22 prompt: an Earth poem
Earthly Concerns
There are only three things
poets write about, he says:
love. death. landscape.
By day we drive back
saying, so this is what
it looks like: sandy, dead.
Late at night, on the way,
we were comet riders, burning
a hole in the blackness.
You play with my hair
as I drive; you say it's all good
whatever I decide.
We are earthed in over eighteen
years of travelling together,
looking for Orion's belt again
exploring the contours of love
mother and daughter, earthbound
guessing the messages of the heavens.
The Massive Comb-Over
Laughter.
Cooing and patting.
What's the matter?
(I'm irritated)
Look in the mirror
Mum. Your hair!
Laughter.
(I see what
she means!)
Ruffling, she lets
my hair look
a little less
proper.
NaPoWriMo 22
Earthly Concerns
There are only three things
poets write about, he says:
love. death. landscape.
By day we drive back
saying, so this is what
it looks like: sandy, dead.
Late at night, on the way,
we were comet riders, burning
a hole in the blackness.
You play with my hair
as I drive; you say it's all good
whatever I decide.
We are earthed in over eighteen
years of travelling together,
looking for Orion's belt again
exploring the contours of love
mother and daughter, earthbound
guessing the messages of the heavens.
The Massive Comb-Over
Laughter.
Cooing and patting.
What's the matter?
(I'm irritated)
Look in the mirror
Mum. Your hair!
Laughter.
(I see what
she means!)
Ruffling, she lets
my hair look
a little less
proper.
NaPoWriMo 22
Friday, April 23, 2010
Off the Cuff 21: According to the weather report & Maps of the Murray
APAD 21 prompt: "According to __________"
According to the weather report
we are driving into storms and showers.
It is Autumn and warmer than we expect.
No complaints: Mikaela and I
pack for our trip, steadily, quietly,
peaceably. We will stop for meals,
sing along to Joni Mitchell. We can
weather any storm, drive west
with a car full of bedding, poems
and antique t-shirts, turning
our experience into wordless prose.
Maps of the Murray
It's like a swag, this red bag
the rolled up conversations
from nineteen years ago.
She wasn't born then, was
a blob of rapidly multiplying
cells. She was born into
travelling, being brave
in the face of humankind's
worst fear: talking to people.
I take her with me as a
talisman. The poems are older
than (her) time, the river ageless.
I travelled upstream then
stopped where peaches and cream
were cause for celebration.
This festival is to celebrate
conversation about conversation.
Timeless, age-old, renewable.
According to the weather report
we are driving into storms and showers.
It is Autumn and warmer than we expect.
No complaints: Mikaela and I
pack for our trip, steadily, quietly,
peaceably. We will stop for meals,
sing along to Joni Mitchell. We can
weather any storm, drive west
with a car full of bedding, poems
and antique t-shirts, turning
our experience into wordless prose.
Maps of the Murray
It's like a swag, this red bag
the rolled up conversations
from nineteen years ago.
She wasn't born then, was
a blob of rapidly multiplying
cells. She was born into
travelling, being brave
in the face of humankind's
worst fear: talking to people.
I take her with me as a
talisman. The poems are older
than (her) time, the river ageless.
I travelled upstream then
stopped where peaches and cream
were cause for celebration.
This festival is to celebrate
conversation about conversation.
Timeless, age-old, renewable.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Off the Cuff 20: Night Driving & Storm
APAD 20 prompt: looking back, or not
Night Driving
1. Looking Back
Side-mirrors blind
as faster drivers
approach to pass.
I swivel the mirror
then can't see
to pass another myself.
Automatic, this
backward-looking:
rear vision/side/ and
a quick glance back
through the window
just to make sure.
It's like skating, or
roller-blading
this dance of heavy trucks
small sedans, taxis
vans, motorcycles,
hot hoon models
and thundering off-road
vehicles on the roads &
the Westgate Bridge.
All of us looking back
peering forward
looking back
either in defence
or attack.
2. Looking Forward
From the top of the bridge
a landscape of coloured lights
a screen of dots, some
steady, some mobile.
From here, the peak hour rush
surges, tail-lights taking
the bends; the effect
is of blood, sluggish
in places, thinning and
quickening the further
we flow along this western
artery, this jugular vein.
The beautiful swerve of us!
The vibrant dashing of cells!
The rich blood-red we are!
Going home for dinner.
Storm
Same bridge, a different journey.
An umbrella of black cloud.
A war being fought, shells
exploding, flashes of -we hope-
friendly fire, white light not quite
the protective spirit we desire.
This bridge is a long, high arch
workmen in and under it often
make it slow going. Tonight, no
nonsense: this rain means business.
Drops like arrows attack windscreens
splatter into blots, clatter against metal.
We drive half-blind in the war
of worlds turned against us, united
in our intention to get through this
to get past the enemy, to survive
the onslaught. It's only rain! Rejoice!
But the racket deafens us.
NaPoWriMo 20
Night Driving
1. Looking Back
Side-mirrors blind
as faster drivers
approach to pass.
I swivel the mirror
then can't see
to pass another myself.
Automatic, this
backward-looking:
rear vision/side/ and
a quick glance back
through the window
just to make sure.
It's like skating, or
roller-blading
this dance of heavy trucks
small sedans, taxis
vans, motorcycles,
hot hoon models
and thundering off-road
vehicles on the roads &
the Westgate Bridge.
All of us looking back
peering forward
looking back
either in defence
or attack.
2. Looking Forward
From the top of the bridge
a landscape of coloured lights
a screen of dots, some
steady, some mobile.
From here, the peak hour rush
surges, tail-lights taking
the bends; the effect
is of blood, sluggish
in places, thinning and
quickening the further
we flow along this western
artery, this jugular vein.
The beautiful swerve of us!
The vibrant dashing of cells!
The rich blood-red we are!
Going home for dinner.
Storm
Same bridge, a different journey.
An umbrella of black cloud.
A war being fought, shells
exploding, flashes of -we hope-
friendly fire, white light not quite
the protective spirit we desire.
This bridge is a long, high arch
workmen in and under it often
make it slow going. Tonight, no
nonsense: this rain means business.
Drops like arrows attack windscreens
splatter into blots, clatter against metal.
We drive half-blind in the war
of worlds turned against us, united
in our intention to get through this
to get past the enemy, to survive
the onslaught. It's only rain! Rejoice!
But the racket deafens us.
NaPoWriMo 20
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Off the Cuff 19: Found Out & The Pinchy Boy
Found Out
Two small boys dash
along the pavement.
Off to school!
"Late!" my daughter says.
"They're early!"
"I mean the ones not
scooting to school.
I mean the waggers
in the skateboard park."
"Oh."
"That's one thing I never did,"
she says after that slight pause.
"Skateboarding? Scooting?"
"No, wagging."
"Yes," I say, "You did become a
conscientious attender."
(Smug mother)
"Yeah," she says, "When I was
a conscientious attender, I
never wagged. I just
pretended to be sick."
I laugh.
She looks a little peaky.
NaPoWriMo 19
The Pinchy Boy
Nameless other than that.
No wonder he pinched.
Made the girls cry. Little
misogynist. Or practical
tear-jerker addicted as
an arsonist, and boys
don't cry, won't cry.
Pinched my sister, not
me, unaware of other
victims. Perhaps she
asked for it? Her dress
too short, shorts too
tight, attitude to nudity
flagrantly punishable?
I wonder what became
of him, who he became?
After Kindergarten and
all that playtime, how
did he fare? I wonder, too
whether my own son was
ever named The Bitey Boy.
Will I one day read a poem
or short story in a feminist
collection, charging my boy
with politically incorrect
hungers? Or see a movie about
both: Skin Lovers Beware!?
APAD 19 prompt: name of person as title
Two small boys dash
along the pavement.
Off to school!
"Late!" my daughter says.
"They're early!"
"I mean the ones not
scooting to school.
I mean the waggers
in the skateboard park."
"Oh."
"That's one thing I never did,"
she says after that slight pause.
"Skateboarding? Scooting?"
"No, wagging."
"Yes," I say, "You did become a
conscientious attender."
(Smug mother)
"Yeah," she says, "When I was
a conscientious attender, I
never wagged. I just
pretended to be sick."
I laugh.
She looks a little peaky.
NaPoWriMo 19
The Pinchy Boy
Nameless other than that.
No wonder he pinched.
Made the girls cry. Little
misogynist. Or practical
tear-jerker addicted as
an arsonist, and boys
don't cry, won't cry.
Pinched my sister, not
me, unaware of other
victims. Perhaps she
asked for it? Her dress
too short, shorts too
tight, attitude to nudity
flagrantly punishable?
I wonder what became
of him, who he became?
After Kindergarten and
all that playtime, how
did he fare? I wonder, too
whether my own son was
ever named The Bitey Boy.
Will I one day read a poem
or short story in a feminist
collection, charging my boy
with politically incorrect
hungers? Or see a movie about
both: Skin Lovers Beware!?
APAD 19 prompt: name of person as title
Monday, April 19, 2010
Off the Cuff 18: The Brain's Workings & To the Moon
The Brain's Workings
Every time I butter toast in the morning I think of S.
She has nothing to do with toast, not even a toastmaster
club, and I don't know if butter would or wouldn't
melt in her mouth. She would eat grain bread, not white.
She is lodged there in my daily bread, my softened
butter spread. My knife slaps jam like paint, and
still I wonder how she is, what she's doing. In my mind
a blank canvas. She's not an artist either, or writer.
It was only recently I discovered this auto-habit
of thought. I stop thinking of her the moment my knife
falls into the sink and I bear my toast to the table
after cutting it carefully in halves, licking the knife.
The thoughts vanish and next morning re-occur.
We shared a house in a landlocked country years ago.
We met at University. We cleaned a beach together.
What am I meant to do with these crumbs of memory?
NaPoWriMo 18
APAD 18 prompt: "To __________"
To the Moon
You golden crescent bright in the season
of hoe, secateur, sickle, you cheesy
Cheshire Cat grin, you bright reminder
of universal laws. Driving home, I watch you
pull up the doona on your bed of cloud,
leap out again as we all do, having forgotten
perhaps to set your alarm, get a glass of water.
Then sink again among the fashionably
black and white soft bedclothes, sleep
swinging, sweet chariot, yellow pendant
on a long long long long chain of gravity.
Every time I butter toast in the morning I think of S.
She has nothing to do with toast, not even a toastmaster
club, and I don't know if butter would or wouldn't
melt in her mouth. She would eat grain bread, not white.
She is lodged there in my daily bread, my softened
butter spread. My knife slaps jam like paint, and
still I wonder how she is, what she's doing. In my mind
a blank canvas. She's not an artist either, or writer.
It was only recently I discovered this auto-habit
of thought. I stop thinking of her the moment my knife
falls into the sink and I bear my toast to the table
after cutting it carefully in halves, licking the knife.
The thoughts vanish and next morning re-occur.
We shared a house in a landlocked country years ago.
We met at University. We cleaned a beach together.
What am I meant to do with these crumbs of memory?
NaPoWriMo 18
APAD 18 prompt: "To __________"
To the Moon
You golden crescent bright in the season
of hoe, secateur, sickle, you cheesy
Cheshire Cat grin, you bright reminder
of universal laws. Driving home, I watch you
pull up the doona on your bed of cloud,
leap out again as we all do, having forgotten
perhaps to set your alarm, get a glass of water.
Then sink again among the fashionably
black and white soft bedclothes, sleep
swinging, sweet chariot, yellow pendant
on a long long long long chain of gravity.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Off the Cuff 17: Crossing the Westgate Bridge & A lifetime of being in & out of love for Melbourne Ch 5
APAD 17 prompt: a science poem
Crossing the Westgate Bridge
Meteorology: low cloud, no rain,
still air, a tattered wind sock.
Climatology: the ponds below are still
and green, despite heavy rain, storms,
hail, anything the frantic Earth
can throw at us.
Seismology: there may be earthquakes
or tremors associated with tectonic plates.
Our vibrations are the impact of heavy traffic.
Engineering: impossible to imagine
the breakdown in synapses that leads to
suicide off this height, or filicide
by a man driving his own children
West to East.
Geomorphology: this asphalt road
must have come from somewhere
extinct and volcanic.
Urban Geography: pretend statistics
mean anything. Ahead, three and a half
million people. Go on, imagine it.
Then move to Mumbai and imagine that.
Biochemistry: somehow all
the competition for lanes
disappears. We drive
at the speed flashing lights
insist upon.
Historical Geography: at least twenty-seven workers
with families and possible futures died constructing
this link. No plaque in neon. No memorial day.
Instead the signs flash: Lane Closures.
Workers inside bridge. Progress.
Human Geography.
A Lifetime of being in or out of love for Melbourne
Chapter 5 2003 Oakleigh
One brief attempt
to embrace urban
benefits: a decent
school for daughter
regular visits by son.
The week we leave
involves landlord's
displeasure: we had
not cut grass, the
front and back yards
were as wild
as we felt, as
natural as life
in the suburbs
tries to be.
NaPoWriMo 17
Crossing the Westgate Bridge
Meteorology: low cloud, no rain,
still air, a tattered wind sock.
Climatology: the ponds below are still
and green, despite heavy rain, storms,
hail, anything the frantic Earth
can throw at us.
Seismology: there may be earthquakes
or tremors associated with tectonic plates.
Our vibrations are the impact of heavy traffic.
Engineering: impossible to imagine
the breakdown in synapses that leads to
suicide off this height, or filicide
by a man driving his own children
West to East.
Geomorphology: this asphalt road
must have come from somewhere
extinct and volcanic.
Urban Geography: pretend statistics
mean anything. Ahead, three and a half
million people. Go on, imagine it.
Then move to Mumbai and imagine that.
Biochemistry: somehow all
the competition for lanes
disappears. We drive
at the speed flashing lights
insist upon.
Historical Geography: at least twenty-seven workers
with families and possible futures died constructing
this link. No plaque in neon. No memorial day.
Instead the signs flash: Lane Closures.
Workers inside bridge. Progress.
Human Geography.
A Lifetime of being in or out of love for Melbourne
Chapter 5 2003 Oakleigh
One brief attempt
to embrace urban
benefits: a decent
school for daughter
regular visits by son.
The week we leave
involves landlord's
displeasure: we had
not cut grass, the
front and back yards
were as wild
as we felt, as
natural as life
in the suburbs
tries to be.
NaPoWriMo 17
Off the Cuff 16: Anzac Day Approaching & A lifetime of being in & out of love for Melbourne Ch 4
APAD 16 prompt: a death poem
Anzac Day Approaching
Of course we are grateful
for the difference they made
if only they would wake up
and hear us playing the Last
Post, over and over and over.
Responding to the call only
made them dead, not different
and not made a difference to.
One headline dares to speak:
War raged on in digger's head.
We call them diggers. This one
had to dig himself out of an
early grave from drinking
to drown out the replays.
No question of questioning
the battalions of death.
Let us create a First Post:
a bugle call to recognise no
difference between each of us
and this plant which has won
the competition for light
a duck in hunting season
that locust invasion. Let us
celebrate real transformation.
A Lifetime of being in and out of love for Melbourne
Chapter 4 1991-99
Brought my girl and boy to Elsternwick
loved the child care and travelling without
car. Shared three houses with great people
before the kids demanded independence.
Into a secure flat, roomy, in South Yarra
with gourmet pizzas, Melbourne High School
and parks. After that era, every place we lived
was less wonderful.
Brought my girl and boy to Melbourne
after the Fringe Festival work in Broome.
Worked everywhere in Victoria the first
four years, on a leash, always returning
with relief. Then to South Melbourne
daily, close to home, the other relief of
regular income, short trips home at night
a balcony garden.
My boy played saxophone and cricket
said he wanted to live in a High Rise
apartment in the CBD when he grew up.
I said to myself , "I want to work overseas."
My girl said, "I want to come too."
(As they do.) Anzac Day 2000 we landed
in Wellington, New Zealand. The boy
stayed put, boarding.
NaPoWriMo 16
Anzac Day Approaching
Of course we are grateful
for the difference they made
if only they would wake up
and hear us playing the Last
Post, over and over and over.
Responding to the call only
made them dead, not different
and not made a difference to.
One headline dares to speak:
War raged on in digger's head.
We call them diggers. This one
had to dig himself out of an
early grave from drinking
to drown out the replays.
No question of questioning
the battalions of death.
Let us create a First Post:
a bugle call to recognise no
difference between each of us
and this plant which has won
the competition for light
a duck in hunting season
that locust invasion. Let us
celebrate real transformation.
A Lifetime of being in and out of love for Melbourne
Chapter 4 1991-99
Brought my girl and boy to Elsternwick
loved the child care and travelling without
car. Shared three houses with great people
before the kids demanded independence.
Into a secure flat, roomy, in South Yarra
with gourmet pizzas, Melbourne High School
and parks. After that era, every place we lived
was less wonderful.
Brought my girl and boy to Melbourne
after the Fringe Festival work in Broome.
Worked everywhere in Victoria the first
four years, on a leash, always returning
with relief. Then to South Melbourne
daily, close to home, the other relief of
regular income, short trips home at night
a balcony garden.
My boy played saxophone and cricket
said he wanted to live in a High Rise
apartment in the CBD when he grew up.
I said to myself , "I want to work overseas."
My girl said, "I want to come too."
(As they do.) Anzac Day 2000 we landed
in Wellington, New Zealand. The boy
stayed put, boarding.
NaPoWriMo 16
Off the Cuff 15: Deadline & A lifetime of being in & out of love for Melbourne Ch 3
APAD 15 prompt: a deadline poem
"Deadline" is a deadly phrase
inviting fear instead of praise.
Why not a "liveline"
or "Date By When"?
And as I say that, I think again.
I pause for thought, as I often do
which is why my work is overdue.
I'll procrastinate
as habit dictates
until I'm in the overload stew.
Then plans and schedules give me peace
While occasions for play
are a true release.
And there is nothing else to do
but take my time
exactly when it's due!
A Lifetime of being in and out of love for Melbourne
Chapter 3: 1979 - 82
Directionless whether in South Yarra,
Box Hill North or North Fitzroy,
it's a time for star gazing, learning
the language of refugee landings: I am
an island of empathy, someone
who now can't see why others say
"They all look the same". I react to
foreign impulses, all too familiar, and
become a mother, move to Dromana.
NaPoWriMo 15
"Deadline" is a deadly phrase
inviting fear instead of praise.
Why not a "liveline"
or "Date By When"?
And as I say that, I think again.
I pause for thought, as I often do
which is why my work is overdue.
I'll procrastinate
as habit dictates
until I'm in the overload stew.
Then plans and schedules give me peace
While occasions for play
are a true release.
And there is nothing else to do
but take my time
exactly when it's due!
A Lifetime of being in and out of love for Melbourne
Chapter 3: 1979 - 82
Directionless whether in South Yarra,
Box Hill North or North Fitzroy,
it's a time for star gazing, learning
the language of refugee landings: I am
an island of empathy, someone
who now can't see why others say
"They all look the same". I react to
foreign impulses, all too familiar, and
become a mother, move to Dromana.
NaPoWriMo 15
Off the Cuff 14: On Revisiting Waiheke Island & A lifetime in & out of love for Melbourne Ch 2
APAD 14 prompt: "___________ Island"
On Revisiting Waiheke Island
At Onetangi, the shade is black
the shade as deep as sleep, the tree
I'm under makes deep and cool
black shade, the table and seat
an old tree smooth-edged, worn,
chiselled by restless teen hands
or men debating another drink
another woman / a different trouble.
Before I am caught by sleep
I leave the shade, retreat
to the beach-front cafe, and sweat.
Waves shove at island's pale rim
gather for half-hearted dumps
sparkling and glittering yet
speak of repetition rather than
of being wet, refreshing.
Six young men play football
take a second for distraction
as four minimally wrapped
young women - beers grasped
by the necks - saunter toward
the water, neither restless
nor soothing, yet something
to aim for, somewhere to go.
Where I am, energy arises from
inexplicable laughter, the clatter
of trays, car doors slamming,
a startle of crockery being stacked.
I sit for an hour to see what changes
to sink into leather, to drink
Weeping Sands red, to wonder
about the islands like cardboard
beyond where the ocean makes
a dark blue line, ruling off a page.
I imagine the Pacific shrugging
and squirming, setting off tsunami.
Arrival of the island's bus reawakens
interest, but Oneroa by four pm is
deserted, shut down. I am ferried -
exhausted - back to Auckland.
A Lifetime of being in and out of love for Melbourne
Chapter 2: 1965 - 74
Parkville, Clayton: places
of learning, yearning.
On the footy field, He
appears beside her; hormones
flood body, brain; they tryst
on homebound train. He alights
at Alphington so she loves
that name. No ideas of global
travel yet, all journeys
on the same rail and tram tracks.
Preston, Rosanna, Upwey -
Clayton, North Caulfield - Prahran
East Malvern - each suburb a superb
setting, and song, plenty of dramatic
tension there: in summer, glaring
pavements make eyes water;
trees and birds make well-controlled
appearances; the house in Christine Street
is the first in a new estate, a long walk
to the railway; leafier older places
smell of rancid cooking oil,
generations of slaving by women
you do the best you can to furnish
and decorate secondhand.
Across a party lounge, eyes lock.
They live together, marry
(Oh, the wantonness, the nonchalance:
six in a VW beetle, three pavlovas
for the wedding on knees, cigarettes
held carefully and high, windows open).
It's Cheltenham and Burwood for aunts
Rye for the grandmother, Syndal, Caulfield,
Malvern, Clematis for friends.
Kingsbury and Burwood Heights provide
work and colleagues. Holidays interstate
and out to country towns please.
But they part after she climbs a high peak
senses the secrets of long-distance views.
Now the urge to join a diaspora, to act
and live globally, becomes a driving need.
NaPoWriMo 14
On Revisiting Waiheke Island
At Onetangi, the shade is black
the shade as deep as sleep, the tree
I'm under makes deep and cool
black shade, the table and seat
an old tree smooth-edged, worn,
chiselled by restless teen hands
or men debating another drink
another woman / a different trouble.
Before I am caught by sleep
I leave the shade, retreat
to the beach-front cafe, and sweat.
Waves shove at island's pale rim
gather for half-hearted dumps
sparkling and glittering yet
speak of repetition rather than
of being wet, refreshing.
Six young men play football
take a second for distraction
as four minimally wrapped
young women - beers grasped
by the necks - saunter toward
the water, neither restless
nor soothing, yet something
to aim for, somewhere to go.
Where I am, energy arises from
inexplicable laughter, the clatter
of trays, car doors slamming,
a startle of crockery being stacked.
I sit for an hour to see what changes
to sink into leather, to drink
Weeping Sands red, to wonder
about the islands like cardboard
beyond where the ocean makes
a dark blue line, ruling off a page.
I imagine the Pacific shrugging
and squirming, setting off tsunami.
Arrival of the island's bus reawakens
interest, but Oneroa by four pm is
deserted, shut down. I am ferried -
exhausted - back to Auckland.
A Lifetime of being in and out of love for Melbourne
Chapter 2: 1965 - 74
Parkville, Clayton: places
of learning, yearning.
On the footy field, He
appears beside her; hormones
flood body, brain; they tryst
on homebound train. He alights
at Alphington so she loves
that name. No ideas of global
travel yet, all journeys
on the same rail and tram tracks.
Preston, Rosanna, Upwey -
Clayton, North Caulfield - Prahran
East Malvern - each suburb a superb
setting, and song, plenty of dramatic
tension there: in summer, glaring
pavements make eyes water;
trees and birds make well-controlled
appearances; the house in Christine Street
is the first in a new estate, a long walk
to the railway; leafier older places
smell of rancid cooking oil,
generations of slaving by women
you do the best you can to furnish
and decorate secondhand.
Across a party lounge, eyes lock.
They live together, marry
(Oh, the wantonness, the nonchalance:
six in a VW beetle, three pavlovas
for the wedding on knees, cigarettes
held carefully and high, windows open).
It's Cheltenham and Burwood for aunts
Rye for the grandmother, Syndal, Caulfield,
Malvern, Clematis for friends.
Kingsbury and Burwood Heights provide
work and colleagues. Holidays interstate
and out to country towns please.
But they part after she climbs a high peak
senses the secrets of long-distance views.
Now the urge to join a diaspora, to act
and live globally, becomes a driving need.
NaPoWriMo 14
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Off the Cuff 13: Socks & A lifetime in & out of love for Melbourne Ch 1
APAD 13 prompt: a love poem
Socks
This became a morning joke:
she would ask both of us
if she could borrow a pair.
She washes them afterwards,
rolls them as she ought.
On Monday, while she was
at college, I selected the six
pairs she likes best. I put them
on her bed. From now on
they belong to her feet.
Driving to work this morning along the new bypass, I realised I have had a long-term love/dislike relationship to Melbourne, the City. So I've begun a series called A Lifetime In and Out of Love for Melbourne.
Chapter 1: 1950 - 1954
Luckily, when I was small,
I was everything and
everything was me, until
that day, the date never known,
when I became an entity, and
home showed up as a half-house
on a busy road in Ormond
where the number was 132
and I told Daddy it should be
123 (that's the right order).
He had made a number plate
for my wooden train, just
the same, and I was angry
at the inaccuracy. I was three,
at least. God, judge and separate
already. From this house
I learned to take my sister by
public bus to kindergarten.
I loved the black doll
in the pusher, pretending
I was Mum. My sister
refused to continue
because of The Pinchy Boy
but I still went, alone on the bus
several blocks, happy.
Kindergarten was in a church.
It still stands in Grange Road.
Daddy was a tally clerk,
then he studied teaching.
He had a set of printer's
blocks because before me
there was another life
making newspapers. I
loved to organise the blocks
alphabetically. Melbourne
for me then was dappled
light, Dad's knee, excited
conversations, folk music
and the Unions (which were-
like Daddy's cooking
and Mummy's ironing -
right and necessary).
NaPoWriMo
Socks
This became a morning joke:
she would ask both of us
if she could borrow a pair.
She washes them afterwards,
rolls them as she ought.
On Monday, while she was
at college, I selected the six
pairs she likes best. I put them
on her bed. From now on
they belong to her feet.
Driving to work this morning along the new bypass, I realised I have had a long-term love/dislike relationship to Melbourne, the City. So I've begun a series called A Lifetime In and Out of Love for Melbourne.
Chapter 1: 1950 - 1954
Luckily, when I was small,
I was everything and
everything was me, until
that day, the date never known,
when I became an entity, and
home showed up as a half-house
on a busy road in Ormond
where the number was 132
and I told Daddy it should be
123 (that's the right order).
He had made a number plate
for my wooden train, just
the same, and I was angry
at the inaccuracy. I was three,
at least. God, judge and separate
already. From this house
I learned to take my sister by
public bus to kindergarten.
I loved the black doll
in the pusher, pretending
I was Mum. My sister
refused to continue
because of The Pinchy Boy
but I still went, alone on the bus
several blocks, happy.
Kindergarten was in a church.
It still stands in Grange Road.
Daddy was a tally clerk,
then he studied teaching.
He had a set of printer's
blocks because before me
there was another life
making newspapers. I
loved to organise the blocks
alphabetically. Melbourne
for me then was dappled
light, Dad's knee, excited
conversations, folk music
and the Unions (which were-
like Daddy's cooking
and Mummy's ironing -
right and necessary).
NaPoWriMo
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Off the Cuff 12: Living in the CBD, Melbourne & Singing in the Baptist Church
APAD 12 prompt: pick a city
Living in the CBD, Melbourne
My colleague lives on the corner
of Little Collins Street and Spencer Street
right across from Southern Cross Station
where all the trains from country towns
terminate, and the racket of metropolitan
trains can shake the teeth from your gums.
Today his lunch included roast pumpkin
from my garden, out there where country
trains are born, and I asked him, "Are you
growing herbs on a balcony where you live?"
"Ah, no," he said. "They'd get covered
in soot. As a matter of fact, I'm asthmatic."
As I chewed my home-grown cucumber
and spicy pumpkin dip on bread sold in
paper bags to enhance its image as healthy,
I pondered the gifts of the city: great views
of public sculptures, parklands pasted over
industrial wastelands, the vertical challenge
of journeying in lifts day in, day out, the risk
of needing a doctor at midnight, the lights
that are never turned off, glass walls that
provide myriad images of self and other
self and others, others, others, and self.
Dying with blackened lungs, for research.
Singing in the Baptist Church
It's been associated with women and seduction
the danger of sirens ringing through centuries of ears.
It's been the best way of being breath-taking
for those of us who, ex-smokers, now
enjoy oxygen in our advanced years.
We ain't no rock
and we are marching
freedom is coming
o La Lay!
That's our repertoire
in the A-Choired Taste
of Gospel, whether or not
we come here to pray.
My daughter's not old
her voice is pure
if anyone's a siren here
it's her and Lauren, sure.
But without them rocks
and miles from a shipping
route,
our energy rises as
our voices dispute
the sinful nature of
singing out loud.
And it's the harmony
of team-voice
that really makes us proud.
NaPoWriMo
Living in the CBD, Melbourne
My colleague lives on the corner
of Little Collins Street and Spencer Street
right across from Southern Cross Station
where all the trains from country towns
terminate, and the racket of metropolitan
trains can shake the teeth from your gums.
Today his lunch included roast pumpkin
from my garden, out there where country
trains are born, and I asked him, "Are you
growing herbs on a balcony where you live?"
"Ah, no," he said. "They'd get covered
in soot. As a matter of fact, I'm asthmatic."
As I chewed my home-grown cucumber
and spicy pumpkin dip on bread sold in
paper bags to enhance its image as healthy,
I pondered the gifts of the city: great views
of public sculptures, parklands pasted over
industrial wastelands, the vertical challenge
of journeying in lifts day in, day out, the risk
of needing a doctor at midnight, the lights
that are never turned off, glass walls that
provide myriad images of self and other
self and others, others, others, and self.
Dying with blackened lungs, for research.
Singing in the Baptist Church
It's been associated with women and seduction
the danger of sirens ringing through centuries of ears.
It's been the best way of being breath-taking
for those of us who, ex-smokers, now
enjoy oxygen in our advanced years.
We ain't no rock
and we are marching
freedom is coming
o La Lay!
That's our repertoire
in the A-Choired Taste
of Gospel, whether or not
we come here to pray.
My daughter's not old
her voice is pure
if anyone's a siren here
it's her and Lauren, sure.
But without them rocks
and miles from a shipping
route,
our energy rises as
our voices dispute
the sinful nature of
singing out loud.
And it's the harmony
of team-voice
that really makes us proud.
NaPoWriMo
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