Category: New/unpublished poems

It’s number 23 in this poem-a-day project.

Yesterday I went to the launch of Thread me a button, a poetry collection by my lovely friend Jude Aquilina and Joan Fenney.

That inspired today’s poem, which could do with being stashed in a tin along with a musty collection of buttons for a while, but here it is, all shiny.

For the love of buttons

I went to the launch of a book about buttons,
poems in a red-covered book about buttons.
There’s more to these simple fasteners
than had ever met my fingers.
I heard poems and stories
about buttons for political campaigns,
about fanciful buttons garnishing Mesdemoiselles,
about locket buttons concealing tiny compasses,
about box buttons smuggling drugs,
about buttons engraved with cryptic messages,
about buttons made from animal parts,
about garlands of charm buttons on silk string,
about buttons for baby booties, wedding dresses, funeral wear;
delicate yet capable
buttons snipped from histories
and wearing a feminine diversity,
unlike the engineer-designed zipper.

Today is day 22.

This afternoon our poetry group discussed the ‘American sentence’, a poetic form advocated by beat poet Allen Ginsberg. Japan gave us the Haiku, which comprises three lines with a total of 17 syllables. The American sentence has 17 syllables but is not broken into lines.

When I got home I was very sad to hear that Stephen Lawrence, a fine poet and lovely man, had passed away suddenly.

I met him for the first time last September and spent a delightful, funny Friday afternoon having drinks with him and Martina Newhook at the University of Adelaide. I would love to have known him better.

RIP Stephen, and sincere condolences to his family.

Thoughtful poet, gentle man, leaves the room too soon; a draught shivers through.

It’s day number 21. We’re on the downhill slope towards day number 30 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

This afternoon I attended a performance poetry workshop run by Mike Ladd, and of course that triggered today’s little offering.

As always, it could probably do with hiding in the ‘to be reviewed’ drawer for a few months.

Virtuoso

Between the capital letter of my morning
and the full stop of my evening
occurred my day,
crafted from a library of truths and yesterdays
shaped by tomorrow’s uncertainty
and finally
performed in surprise
like an intimate kiss with a stranger.

It’s day number 20 and I must be quite tired because today’s poem is rather odd.

I don’t know that I’d even call it a poem.

One of my fellow students, Josephine, posted a link to an article about a Ghost Nets exhibition.

I only glanced at the first few lines of it because the title had already taken me away in a completely different direction. I wrote this with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

As always, these productions are fresh from my head to pencil to screen but could do with being put into storage for a while to mature.

Ghost nets

are a serious issue for your average house phantom.
The last thing a busy ghost needs is to be bothered by the living.
Most ghosts are preoccupied with hauntings deadlines,
séance project management and implementation,
running the occasional poltergeist manifestation
and generally going about their supernatural business.
At the annual Ghost Net conference
troubled spectres present overhead transparencies
with graphs that illustrate how ghost net setting is on the increase
as the living tune in to the ghost population,
and propose methodologies for ghost net detection and safe disposal;
discussion panels and workshops are particularly popular.
A Ghost Net Tax was proposed:
this sparked a major protest
and led to Occupy Convents, Occupy Graveyards and Occupy Hotels
(they needed special permits for Occupy Churches).

Here’s my poem for day number 19 in my poem-a-day project for April.

I received Sydney Writers’ Centre e-newsletter today and after reading the ‘Weird Words’ section, this poem prickled its way onto the page.

House of hedgehog

I love it when a word
springs off the page
and startles me,
grabbing my neck
with first and last syllables,
tightening its hold
with middle syllables,
then releasing me,
standing back, cheeky,
to inspect me.
I love it when a word
wants to be welcomed
into the lemon-scented home of my vocabulary,
paraded in front of other residents,
admired, tasted, heard.
I love it when a word
wants to mark its own terrain in my lexicon.
The word that did this to me today?
Erinaceous.

Today is day #18 in my poem-a-day extravaganza for April.

Over at Writers Digest (thanks to Mike Hopkins for the link) Robert Lee Brewer is offering a prompt each day for ideas for poems.

One suggestion was to write a ‘mixed up’ poem. This could be interpreted any way you want.

Here’s where I went:

Trading places

If you were gazing at a blank page
while I was licking my bowl clean
what would you write?
If you doubted your own ability
while I dozed on my bed after a long walk
what would you do?
If you felt insecure
while I was gnawing a juicy marrow bone
how would you cope?
If you were wondering what was the point
while I was wagging my tail
what would you conclude?
If you asked yourself whether you could ever trust again,
while I waited for you to feed me,
what would you answer?

Here’s another poem as part of my poem-a-day effort for April.

I was inspired to write a Tanka by Mike Hopkins. A Tanka is a Japanese form of five lines structured with five, seven, five, seven and seven syllables respectively.

The subject matter was sparked by Robert’s gorgeous photo for today, which you can see over here.

Tanka

Bug trawling gecko
you stick to the ribbed window
like glue, unmoving;
pale pink skin, legs splayed, feasting
at your local fast food joint.

So we are on day #16: starting the second half of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

I wrote this poem outside my local post office; that’s the way it happens sometimes, they just arrive at the strangest moments and expect you to have a pen and paper ready to oblige. And I did.

Like all my daily poems it stands quivering, awaiting your judgement.

Poem for nothing

In the story
of the here and now
here is now
and now is here;
in now and again,
again,
is now
as is again;
in the here and there
is there,
and here
is there too;
in the story
of all or nothing
is all
and nothing
and all or nothing;
in the here and now
is all
is nothing
here
now,
just a story.