Category: Poem a Day

In May 2013 the University of Adelaide launched its new brand positioning tagline ‘Seek light’, ‘…drawing on the theme of light and the search for new knowledge…’. It ties in with the University’s motto Sub Cruce Lumen (Light under the [Southern] Cross).

Today’s poem combines this idea with a story about two young girls who suffer from a condition called Xeroderma pigmentosum (XP) – an extreme sensitivity to UV rays from sunlight.

On the use of abstract concepts in brand taglines

The tagline is curt, direct; instructs us to ‘Seek light’
clipped words tip their type to the Southern Cross
concept fits well in the agency brief.

As I head to the Hub for a coffee
I see all the eager light-seekers
and I wonder how the nocturnal feel
in the glare of this dazzling metaphor:
does it throw their circadian rhythms?

And the directive would be fatal
for the two sisters who must hide from light
because UV rays damage their DNA
and their systems cannot repair it,
so by day they stay in their darkened, candle-lit house
and at night they play and picnic under the stars.

I return and buckle down in my tunnel
watching, hoping, for light at the end.

Today’s poem was inspired by this photo, ‘A fleeting glimpse’, shot by Robert Rath.

A fleeting glimpse

I have felt shifting moods of an old miner’s cottage. Fascinated.
I have heard muffled shuffling in a hotel hallway. Curious.
I have smelt sharp odours coming and going in a house where a child died. Intrigued.
I have sensed I’m unwelcome in parts of this land. Subdued.
It’s the occasional fleeting glimpse of late loved ones
that rattles me most.

Cemetery

I like the gravity of a cemetery
sentinel heads protect the secrets of skeletons
from cool closet to sun-baked earth
and I imagine and mourn their stories
returned to dust:
the illicit affair
the stillborn child
intimacies with a trusted priest
(him safely dead too)
and I worry about how names and years disappear
as stone markers crumble over time
and yet red gum salvaged
from the bed of the Murray
has yielded perfectly formed
one-thousand-year-old fossilised tales.

Last year Australian author Gail Jones gave a talk called ‘Discovering time’ which was in the context of her beautiful book Five Bells. One of the statements she made was: ‘a poem is a kind of room; we rest there’, which inspired today’s poem.

Siesta

It’s half past three in the afternoon
time to make a cup of tea and go to my room

lie on my bed
sink into my head

hear the ticking of my father’s red clock
wear my mother’s cream wool shawl

and I sense how a poem is this kind of room,
that here, within its irregular walls

I can examine the dents in the wardrobe
trace and follow the lines on the floorboards
breathe the memories in shifting spaces

and when I open the blinds it is inside out:
the room contains more than everything outside it.

The small birds scatter

murmuration shattered
in a cold sky
above the indifferent lake

and I watch them take their songs
and I wish that I belonged

to the air
to the space
to the stars

in another, separate curl
in this world’s fabric

so that I could see
what caused these small birds
to scatter so.

Road trip

In dim hallways
there’s always a chance
to unmute the hush.

It’s the shifting shades
of impossible light
on the long straight road
that give you no choice
but to open
your windows.

And what does day three of poem-a-day month have in store? Another rough-as-guts poem, of course.

This circular six-syllable-line whimsy mixes down two of my favourite pastimes, drinking and music.

The session

…and here we are at the
first bar, our regular
beat semi-remembered,
“How’s it going?” “Great form!”
we are sitting in lines;
we pause, uncertain, lean
for a rest then pick up
in the second and third
bars, smooth moves, graceful, we’re
feeling playful, pacing
ourselves over the next
thirteen bars; round after
round, doubles, triples, our
signature, from time to
time we almost lose the
run of ourselves, fading,
falling; after a brief
rest in the last bar we
hear: time, gentlemen, please,
so DC al Coda…

Day two of poem-a-day month, April 2014, and here’s another raw first draft.

I decided to take a prompt from the NaPoWriMo website which in turn sent me to this intriguing site, Bibliomancy Oracle. I clicked the button and this quote popped up:

Perhaps you didn’t realize
Anything can happen under a sky like this.
Never give in to surprise:

from The Small Self and the Liberal Sky by James Galvin

I really liked the second line ‘Anything can happen under a sky like this’ so I used it to launch into the idea of ‘dropping’, randomness and ended up (surprisingly or maybe not) inside out.

drop, slip, turn

anything can happen under a sky like this
supercooled droplets in clouds ice a plane
seabirds plummet for fishy prey
rain umbrellas our hatless heads
apples fall in Newton’s orchard
the core of our earth pulls
and pitches us through space
half a kilometre each second
as we stand still
lurching trains with standing room only
hurl us into the arms of strangers
while we cling to handles
and our pride
and the loved ones
we should have let go
while we make everything
mean something
and meanwhile
this sky slips under our skin

Today is the first day of poem-a-day month, April 2014. The associated website is over here at NaPoWriMo 2014.

I will be writing and posting a new poem here each day, so make sure to check back here daily for a new poetic offering.

As always, I include the disclaimer that all poems posted during this month will be raw first drafts!

This morning I saw on Facebook that someone had ‘liked’ this page: TWLOHA. I followed the link and discovered ‘To write love on her arms’, a beautiful (US-based) movement and support group that helps those who self-harm, who have attempted suicide or who have suicidal thoughts.

This poem for day one was the (probably inevitable) result, with the first line being the name of the movement.

TWLOHA

To write love on her arms
she charms her blades across
her papyrus skin, she’s in
the state to inscribe
poetry
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspher
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspbroken
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspsoul
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspwishes
to bleed dark kisses to a
darker master
anticipating her artistic
immolation to him,
enticing her with mystery
and her history
of lonely loathing
of waiting alone for icy cold
to take hold and permeate,
permanent

and yet she grasps a vision of living that may last,
that tenders her strength
to bypass despair, that measures out hope
dares her to care enough about herself
to cope, to believe that she is worthy
and she decides it’s worth the pain
of saying no to the knife
so that she can say
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspyes
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspyes
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspyes
to her beautiful life