Day 6: Don't -----, -------
(fill in the blanks)
I can't even remember what I was going to write yesterday, so I'm starting at the beginning.
OK, so my poem will be called:
Don't indulge in regret, just get on with it.
(subtitle: precarious balance)
This sounds like a family anthem.
One parent an expert procrastinator
recycling reams of that old computer paper
with holes down the sides, planning,
listing, capturing every detail with ink
before doing what he knew needed doing.
The other an early SuperMum -
jobs in school hours, three kids
and the entire repertoire of house chores
keeping her on the run, no time
for planning, so she left it up to
the other one. Precarious balance.
The eldest child, I copied both.
If I don't write things down
I lose the plot. If I keepdoing things
without a plan, I need time out.
My life one big circus, swinging
from horse's back to trapeze.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Don't ---------, ---------
Sounds like I'm about to give advice.
If I were to do that, I'd be tempted to say, Don't try creating a New Post, go to bed and read a good book. In fact, I'm going to take my own advice as tonight this computer does not want to play.
If I were to do that, I'd be tempted to say, Don't try creating a New Post, go to bed and read a good book. In fact, I'm going to take my own advice as tonight this computer does not want to play.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Two For Tuesday: goofy or serious or both
Seriously Singing and Dancing
I'm back in the savannah
drums on masonite lockers
young women with hips
wrapped in cloth and rhythm
making up the songs
complaints and stories
daily life transformed
full moon bright as the eye
of god, swinging in time
to mortal tunes.
Thirty-five years later
rhythm of gospel
makes me bouncy
I'm saucy again, hips
remembering to swing
this time to immortal tunes.
I'm back in the savannah
drums on masonite lockers
young women with hips
wrapped in cloth and rhythm
making up the songs
complaints and stories
daily life transformed
full moon bright as the eye
of god, swinging in time
to mortal tunes.
Thirty-five years later
rhythm of gospel
makes me bouncy
I'm saucy again, hips
remembering to swing
this time to immortal tunes.
Fourth Prompt: pick a type of person & write about them
I've got behind. Had so much work to do I really couldn't think of a particular kind of person. But I do know a stoic. Her relationship to all life's issues is to put up or shut up. Here she is:
She refuses to give in.
Sometimes the pain
has her gaze rise
heavenward; too bad
she doesn't believe in it.
When asked, she replies
briskly, "I'll be right.
I've done it before!" As if
she has become younger
stronger, more agile.
The doctor says her heart
is beating faster. "More
excited by life?" I ask.
"Hardly!" she says, "Ouch!"
And still she won't give in.
She refuses to give in.
Sometimes the pain
has her gaze rise
heavenward; too bad
she doesn't believe in it.
When asked, she replies
briskly, "I'll be right.
I've done it before!" As if
she has become younger
stronger, more agile.
The doctor says her heart
is beating faster. "More
excited by life?" I ask.
"Hardly!" she says, "Ouch!"
And still she won't give in.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
DAY 3 Poem-A-Day: prompt - imagine the world without me
In a way, the world already exists without me. By that I mean I am not necessarily separate. The identity I am is in the world and of it, pretty much indistinguishable from the mass of molecules here, if you get far enough out.To a space traveller, the world is without lots of us, though our impact may be visible.
Anyway, I wrote this:
Is the world ever
without me? After death
my ashes remain
or flesh, falling apart
around bone in wood
in earth, in the world
as memory, written on stone
and if written otherwise
in memory only as long as
others who knew me exist.
I become food for arthropod
and thought.
Meanwhile, I am the butterfly
whose tiny wingbeats
alter the pattern of winds
cause breeze or hurricane.
The fluttering of my parents'
desire brought me into
the game. One day I may be
physically nothing.
First I will die in memory
unremembered
three generations hence.
Anyway, I wrote this:
Is the world ever
without me? After death
my ashes remain
or flesh, falling apart
around bone in wood
in earth, in the world
as memory, written on stone
and if written otherwise
in memory only as long as
others who knew me exist.
I become food for arthropod
and thought.
Meanwhile, I am the butterfly
whose tiny wingbeats
alter the pattern of winds
cause breeze or hurricane.
The fluttering of my parents'
desire brought me into
the game. One day I may be
physically nothing.
First I will die in memory
unremembered
three generations hence.
Monday, April 4, 2011
SECOND PROMPT: a postcard poem
Well, having a prompt like this buzzing around in your brain while you go about your day is certainly illuminating.
What is it about the railway platform that you'd write home about? What about the sound of two children screaming together in a distant backyard? Should I spend the day as a tourist down one of the local gorges, or picking strawberries in the Avenue of Honour? Does sitting at my computer, re-reading my memoir bits and pieces count as postcard-worthy?
Eventually, I came up with the following:
Sunday, 3rd April, Swanston St, CBD
Silence. How I miss it.
Your singing, your croaking
your soft sighs.
The broad footpaths
bear a heavy load
of feet. The street
reeks of horse-shit.
At San Churro cafe
there is so little room
between tables, my body
becomes a threat
to peace and stability.
The State Library lawns
wriggle and shout with children
meeting picture-book illustrators.
I think of you, miss you
do not wish you were here.
addressed to:
Back Yard
Home Valley
Victoria, Australia.
What is it about the railway platform that you'd write home about? What about the sound of two children screaming together in a distant backyard? Should I spend the day as a tourist down one of the local gorges, or picking strawberries in the Avenue of Honour? Does sitting at my computer, re-reading my memoir bits and pieces count as postcard-worthy?
Eventually, I came up with the following:
Sunday, 3rd April, Swanston St, CBD
Silence. How I miss it.
Your singing, your croaking
your soft sighs.
The broad footpaths
bear a heavy load
of feet. The street
reeks of horse-shit.
At San Churro cafe
there is so little room
between tables, my body
becomes a threat
to peace and stability.
The State Library lawns
wriggle and shout with children
meeting picture-book illustrators.
I think of you, miss you
do not wish you were here.
addressed to:
Back Yard
Home Valley
Victoria, Australia.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
IT'S APRIL AGAIN
Phew! After that Marathon effort in March, I had to take a little break. Luckily, our friends north and west of us are still behind our times, so we had to wait for the first prompt until the 2nd April. Yes, I know today's the 3rd. Here's my good excuse: last night we turned the clocks back an hour so I got enough sleep to think clearly!
Anyway, I think you will get two poems out of me as a reward for waiting. Yesterday, two things happened: I went to the local market and placed 50 flyers advertising our choir's Flood Relief Concert under windscreen wipers. And later, and compltely unrelated, a chunk of one of my well-filled molars broke off as I was eating dates. (They were soft squishy ones, too, and I was not trying to chew the pip!)
The first prompt for April's Poem-A-Day challenge is: "what got you here".
Poem 1
To this house
my mother's instinct brought me
To this poem
my father's teachings wrought me
To this broken tooth
their DNA unwinding
To this bed, and sleep
an extra hour worth finding.
Poem 2
Her schooldays spent singing along to ABC
for schools, stamping the floor to European tunes
piano lessons and practice even in the heat
the threat of fire, flood, death by drought.
A true as yet uncivilised Australian
without electricity, piped water, supermarket
she yet felt music as a living force, a food
and drink she could never get enough of.
Just like her father, whose lullabies at night
and harmonica's jaunty adventures;
who, once living in electrified towns,
would fill the house with symphony, concerto,
had filled her very cells with harmony,
rhythm, reading by sight, and a keen ear.
One day someone said she sang
out of tune, could not hold the note.
Never mind, she hid her love by singing
with school choirs, dancing to raw bands,
jazz in bars, uttering pure high sounds
while driving through forests, window down.
And then the epiphany: it was only
what an unremembered someone had said.
Not necessarily true. Who made that critic
God? She joined the local Gospel world
to worship once again the swirling colours
of music in her veins, the power of voice.
The leaflets advertise two choirs in concert
where contribution will be rejoiced.
Anyway, I think you will get two poems out of me as a reward for waiting. Yesterday, two things happened: I went to the local market and placed 50 flyers advertising our choir's Flood Relief Concert under windscreen wipers. And later, and compltely unrelated, a chunk of one of my well-filled molars broke off as I was eating dates. (They were soft squishy ones, too, and I was not trying to chew the pip!)
The first prompt for April's Poem-A-Day challenge is: "what got you here".
Poem 1
To this house
my mother's instinct brought me
To this poem
my father's teachings wrought me
To this broken tooth
their DNA unwinding
To this bed, and sleep
an extra hour worth finding.
Poem 2
Her schooldays spent singing along to ABC
for schools, stamping the floor to European tunes
piano lessons and practice even in the heat
the threat of fire, flood, death by drought.
A true as yet uncivilised Australian
without electricity, piped water, supermarket
she yet felt music as a living force, a food
and drink she could never get enough of.
Just like her father, whose lullabies at night
and harmonica's jaunty adventures;
who, once living in electrified towns,
would fill the house with symphony, concerto,
had filled her very cells with harmony,
rhythm, reading by sight, and a keen ear.
One day someone said she sang
out of tune, could not hold the note.
Never mind, she hid her love by singing
with school choirs, dancing to raw bands,
jazz in bars, uttering pure high sounds
while driving through forests, window down.
And then the epiphany: it was only
what an unremembered someone had said.
Not necessarily true. Who made that critic
God? She joined the local Gospel world
to worship once again the swirling colours
of music in her veins, the power of voice.
The leaflets advertise two choirs in concert
where contribution will be rejoiced.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)