Entries by Jennifer Liston

It's day eight of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

I never know where a poem is going to go. Today's one was kick-started by the lovely idea of cloud reading from this post at Seedlings in Stone.

Feel free to comment - don't be shy!


Cloud watching

They both lie hand in hand on shelled ground,
trying to distinguish
dragons feeding on ice-cream cones
a dog and a bird, flying together,
white cotton wheels rolling across their childhood blue.
no blue here.
gazing up through hazy dust
through dim building shapes
through street lights, long extinguished,
through a heavy film of history
at a sky racing towards them;
sounds of planes
grow louder again
whine of alarms
begins again
as their light folds to dark
and clouds implode
into a single point.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Here's today's poem.

Enjoy!


Reminder

As you welcome me home each evening
always in a happy mood,
as you stretch, full belly, yawning
after gulping down your food,
as you listen, or ignore me,
as you lick my salty skin,
as I slip a collar round your neck:
remember who's top dog.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Today I've experimented with writing/constructing a concrete poem for National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

In a concrete poem, the way the words are arranged is as important as the message of the poem itself.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Today's raw National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) poem is modelled on Robert Frost's 'Stopping by woods on a snowy evening', which ends with the enigmatic lines '...And miles to go before I sleep / And miles to go before I sleep.'

I've used the same rhyming scheme and the same number of verses.

Let me know what you think in the comments box.


Stopping in a Garden on a Thursday evening

This Garden, oh Gethsemane,
My Father knows I want to flee
But faith this paltry life transcends:
My duty to help mankind see.

I spent the evening with my friends
Broke bread, shared wine, now evening ends
My Father's wish I can't delay
On me his winning plan depends.

But Judas, you will me betray.
And Peter, by the breaking day
You'll shake your head three times, deny,
Then cock will crow, to your dismay.

And even yet, I wonder why...
My friends, I bid you warm goodbye
Not long to go before I die
Not long to go before I die.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

My day four National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) poem is a haiku inspired by an ABC article about locusts.



Haiku

Tired locusts on red earth,
hold breath to rest,
prepare to swarm.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Today's 'naked' National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) poem was inspired by this lovely quote from a certain M C Richards: Poetry often enters through the window of irrelevance.

I hope you like it. Let me know what you think in the comments box.


Allowing the ordinary

I woke up at 5.30 this morning,
made myself a black coffee
in my favourite blue-and-yellow mug;
threw open the window
smelled the new-mown grass
regarded yesterday's towels on the clothes line
noticed the faint outlines
of our three bicycles leaning against the fence
and the jumble of dog toys on the lawn;
I inhaled the fresh air
heard the doves call to each other
as elegant eucalyptus branches moved gently;
I saw a Tuesday morning blink its sleep-filled eyes,
watched an April sky pull back its curtains,
open its windows.

And later
as I considered ideas for today's poem
my first thought was
that this morning
had been one like every other,
irrelevant
mundane
nothing special.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

This week's rescued piece is from Reading in the Dark by Seamus Deane (p105) and Flying the Kite by John Button (p31). Enjoy!



Dark kite

Fifty of the fattest
clumped hands
grabbed
petals of roses
on sacred rolling waves
in California.

An economy possessed.

Broken spirals
dashed arms
whirling in whitedown waters
clean cheeks
and fuck the flatter father
shocked the children.

Brothers, mothers, sobbing
a million marines marching
Jesus's sacred tabernacle
angrily stripped
pickaxed
in red cement.

In Australia
an array of undernourished millionaires
panic.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Here's my day two poem offering.


Yesterday

Yesterday was Palm Sunday.
I remembered only towards day's end.

I remember well
in the Holy Weeks of my childhood
the smell
of fresh-cut pine tree branches,
sacramentals in the box at the church entrance.

We'd choose a blessèd stem
symbol of adulation
of imminent betrayal,
reminder of how we blow with the wind:
cry 'Hosanna!' one day
cry 'Crucify Him!' the next.

Yesterday was also April Fool’s day.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Just because I haven't enough writing commitments on my plate, ha ha, I've signed up to National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). This means I've set the intention to write a poem every day for the month of April.

What you're going to see here every day for the month of April 2012 is a poem that I've just written, all raw and unedited (gulp).

Maybe this should be called Naked Poetry Writing Month?

When I write a poem I usually do a quick first edit, then I leave it for a week or so and revisit it and give it a good going-over with my red pen. (And sometimes that's not enough to make it decent.)

But National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) doesn't afford me the luxury of that time.

So prepare yourself for some self-conscious naked poems this month.

Of course I'll still be posting 'rescued' poems every Tuesday. That won't change.

Okay, so here's the first offering, inspired by the name of a book club mentioned over at L L Barkat's website Tweetspeak.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

This little rescue-ee is from Eva Luna by Isabel Allende (p217) and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon (p207).



Curious room

Beneath the hoping measured
narrow echoey train
was roar roar
was stutter stutter.

Machines in rows,
silently fluorescent.

Spindle factory,
quota weighed.

Damn bitches
in windowless cubicles
served the silent treatment.

Lipstick, ribbons, makeup, hair creams, boots, skirts
never paper-wrapped gestures.

Unappetising lunchroom leftovers:
beans and custard creams.

Walls that wear eyes.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

I rescued this poem from This is not a novel by Jennifer Johnston (p33) and If on a winter's night a traveller by Italo Calvino (p148).

Posted by Jennifer Liston

It's that time of the week again!

I rescued this poem from Disgrace by J M Coetzee (p27) and The Shipping News by Annie Proulx (p193). What do you think? Or maybe I should ask how you feel.


Disgrace

Beer fingers pressed
his face towers
leaning like a lover
whispering wary affairs

        murmurs         no
        whispers         no

raise sweater
rip singlet
kick shoes
slip stockings

        says         no
        repeats         no

wracked forehead, mouth, shoulders, arms, hands, wrists, fists, buttocks, legs, ankles

        snarls         no
        crying         no

clinking movement
honey drinking
warm unfurled crushed will

                no
                no

heavy hands stroke folds
looped to bottles of misery
snake uncurled, hard against belly
intoxicating rock of female
clasped to a basket of heat
perforated prisoner

twitched, transfixed, then flicker
suddenly the idea of ice, blackening, double-towered, in waves
reared storm tilting soundlessly, quickly.

        Repeat         no.
        Meant         no.

Dead-man's-fingers cover absence.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

These recent days have been poetry-filled and frilled with meeting many new and fascinating people. Although poetry is not a major feature of Adelaide Writers' Week, I was delighted to meet and chat to Dennis O'Driscoll a couple of times at the event. Dennis is from Tipperary (not too far from my home town) and I can tell you now: his poem 'Someone' is guaranteed to give you goosebumps. And his poetry books sold out at the event! (I remember this happened a few years back when Simon Armitage's poetry collections raced out the tent door and there wasn't a copy left anywhere in Adelaide.) However, I was lucky enough to bag one of the last remaining few copies of Stepping Stones, a collection of Dennis's interviews with his friend and fellow poet, Seamus Heaney.

I also attended the session with Mike Ladd and Les Murray in conversation. Les Murray's most recent collection, Taller when Prone, won the 2012 John Bray Poetry Award. Mike compared Les's poetry about place and surroundings with that of Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh, who believed that 'All great civilizations are based on the parish'. Kavanagh wrote about everyday farming life (for example 'Spraying the Potatoes') and said '...the things that really matter are casual, insignificant little things'.

In another session, Dionne Brand (Canada), Aidan Coleman (Adelaide), Michael Hulse (UK), Mike Ladd (Adelaide), Dennis O'Driscoll (Ireland) and Jan Owen (Adelaide) read a selection of their poems. It was a delight to hear each poet voice his/her own work. I bought a copy of Aidan Coleman's new book, Asymmetry, which I'm looking forward to experiencing. The poems navigate the challenging path of the author's recovery from a stroke; the collection has had rave reviews.

I was disappointed that I couldn't make it to the launch of Friendly Street Poets 'New Poets 17' (which features gareth roi jones, John Pfitzner and Rachael Mead), as well as the launch of Friendly Street Poets 'Flying Kites' edited by Judy Dally and Louise McKenna. I bought a copy of each, however, and I'm looking forward to dipping in.

All in all, mad March has offered Adelaide a nice polite pot of poetry.

In the next post I'll update you on some slam and spoken word events.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

I rescued this short and sharp poem from End of the Night Girl by Amy Matthews (p61) and Mastery by George Leonard (p122).


Mastery of the night

Sometimes we breathe miracles.
Sometimes we thank black larcenous fuck
chewing curiosity on the couch,
lacking dark remorse
strangling charms
peeing persuasiveness;
every phony Einstein
catches nervous villains and depressed psychopaths:
from drunk to superhuman
let's toast the holy hero.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

I rescued this poem from Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt (p115) and Secret Wisdom – Occult societies and arcane knowledge through the ages by Ruth Clydesdale (p148).


Note: 'jakes' is pronounced 'jacks'. It's an old Irish slang word for 'toilet'.


Asylum renovations

Her alchemy torments the planets,
his philosophy:
sour sweepings
from desperate universal truths pamphlets;
the lunatics, understanding divinity, drink hard.
Meanwhile,
        teihr wolrd reraangred
their asylum
protected
they throw themselves reality
bake     flour       bake
pints         drink                 pints
loaves
        and
        drinks;
now, drinking champion

Posted by Jennifer Liston