Entries by Jennifer Liston

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.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Posted by Jennifer Liston

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…

Posted by Jennifer Liston

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

Posted by Jennifer Liston

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
                her
                                broken
                                                soul
                                                                wishes
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
                yes
                                yes
                                                yes
to her beautiful life

Posted by Jennifer Liston

I'll be reading some of my poems with super-talented poet Louise McKenna at 5.30 pm next Wednesday 20th November at the State Library of South Australia, North Terrace, Adelaide.

'Words @ the Wall' is a joint Friendly Street Poets and State Library event and is a lovely, unique kind of poetry reading. The library is a beautiful setting and the event itself - two poets reading for no longer than 45 minutes - gives the audience no time to get bored.

And it's free.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

I joined amazing wordsmiths Alison Flett, Heather Taylor-Johnson, Rachael Mead and Anna Solding at a writing retreat during the October long weekend (5-7 October). We rented a house on Hindmarsh Island, an area close to Goolwa on the Fleurieu Peninsula about a 1.5-hour drive from Adelaide.

The idea was to write our little heads off in a distraction-free environment. The house, which backed onto the waterway, was certainly large enough for each of us to find our individual writing spaces. In the evening we'd read out what we'd written if we felt like it.

Everyone brought and shared delicious home-cooked food and of course we had supplies of wine, beer, gin and vodka.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Letter.Box.Stamp.Collect. is an installation by Pascalle Burton for the Queensland Poetry Festival 2013, which will be held from 23-25 August.

I'm delighted that my poem, 'yesterday's images', is published as part of the circular poetry featured here.

You can read here about the 'letterboxing' concept, which dates back to the 19th century.

Poetic geocaching, anyone?

Posted by Jennifer Liston

I love the final line of F Scott Fitzgerald's novel The Great Gatsby:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

So I decided to decimate and recreate.

I wanted to see how far I could break down the sentence phonetically. I changed words but remained reasonably close to the original sound, whether or not the resulting sentence made sense. It was quite difficult; I managed only four variations, then I turned it into a poem. 'slí', pronounced 'shlee', is the Irish word for 'way'. A French 'que' also made its way into the piece.

And so, we have what might be called a conceptual poem for day number 30, the last day.

Tomorrow, I rest. Maybe.

Grate gads, be

So we beat on,
boats against the current,
borne back ceaselessly
into the past.
Soho wee beet un,
bow oats eggs ends the currant,
boron beck seas less lean
to passed.
Sew 'e, be ton,
beau its sag sense it the cur and,
beaux're on bex 'e's Leslie
en tooth pass it.
Sow he bee ten,
beaux it Sagan Seti thick runt,
bore on baa que sees le slí
in topaz.
Sowie, beaten,
boa wits egg sensed thee icky rennet,
bow Ron bah access Les lien
two thee pest.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Today I came across two poems by Vladimir Mayakovsky and I fell in love with the titles: 'Talking with the Taxman about Poetry' and 'A Cloud in Trousers'. I decided I wanted to write a poem including the two titles.

I went to this page, 'Poems for every occasion', which lists 22 rows of themes.

I selected one theme in every row (I chose the first theme in the first row, second in the second row, third in the third row, first in the fourth row, and so on).

From these I selected the most interesting and appropriate poem title; I made no changes to any title. I didn't look ahead to plan the flow, nor did I go back and select a different title to suit what followed.

Then I inserted the two Mayakovsky poem titles where I thought suited best.

The poem title itself is from the final theme ('Poems about living and human experiences'). and voilà! Poem number 29.

(I really wanted to include 'Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens' by Jack Prelutsky from the section of poems about birds but it didn't fit the flow!)

What the living do

somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond
the storm
I explain a few things:
a litany in a time of plague
the thread of life
the routine things around the house;
from you have I been absent in the spring,
sitting outside
by the road to the contagious hospital,
a cloud in trousers,
home after three months away,
reading Plato.
As I walked out one evening
some part of the lyric –
the testing-tree
the still life –
fat southern men in summer suits
talking with the taxman about poetry,
telling the bees,
compulsively allergic to the truth;
the sheep child
poet as immortal bird,
song of the trees
thrown as if fierce & wild.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

This afternoon I dipped into a wonderful book called Secret Wisdom and read about Marsilio Ficino, who was known as the 'first Renaissance man'. Ficino was a key figure in the Italian Renaissance and the development of European philosophy. He revived the wisdom of ancient philosophers by translating key ancient Greek and Egyptian texts into Latin, making them relevant for his contemporaries and for us. He was also famous for his music and he believed that he had revived the actual music of Orpheus.

Drinking Kykeon in ancient Greece during initiation ceremonies induced a 'revelatory' state.

while dreaming of Orphic hymns
I turn towards the Choirmaster
release my soul
in harmony;
I hear
music of the spheres,
recognise intervals
from moon
to planets;
applied universal philosophy
yet eleusian mysteries
elude me;
I wish
for just one sip
of Kykeon brew...

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Day 27. A suggestion here prompted me to plug my name into this anagram generator. I set a limit of a minimum word size of three. It generated 1,633 words and I eliminated repeating words using this tool. Then I randomised the list 14 times (the number of letters in my name).

I rescued poem number 27 from the pool of words.

Enter, not for its life

Soften sire,
relent!

Felons loiter,
leer
felines trifle
jest,
jot notes
sort linen.

Foes riot, flee.
Lone son stolen.
Stonier inner filter
jolts,
tenor tones.

Lifers sneer.

Sinner risen,
feels soft,
frees son.

Listen:
elfin seer siren
silent for eons!

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Language thinks us and so we must resist its insidious influence so as to rid ourselves of the crushing presence of the déjà-dit.

-- Flemish poet-critic Jan Baetens.

If language thinks us
it is conscious;
if language thinks us
we are patterns
distributed across space
evolving in time,
we cooperate as neurons
in pre-designed algorithms,
carried by
reason,
habit
intuition,
we enable decisions,
transmit choices,
convey solutions,
we under-lie imagination
discovery
and creation;
we allow language
to express what it thinks
what it means
who it means:
we are the meaning.

Posted by Jennifer Liston

From that time on, I basked in the Poem of the Sea,
A milk-white suspension of stars that devours
Raw azures. Through it drowned men
Fall like bleached driftwood, heavy with trance.

-- 'Drunken boat' ('Le Bateau ivre'),
from Arthur Rimbaud Selected Poems and Letters,
translated by Jeremy Harding and John Sturrock.

Falling through

You would think it
a gentle time,
this basking
in a sea of stars...

...but no!
poems dart by
brushing my toes
teasing my
wrinkled skin
wriggling through
my thirsty fingers
punishing me
with promises
parching my hope...

...oh!
the way they
devour
raw azures
roars in my ears
blinds my eyes
sucks my taste
and as the stars
shuck my shine
and catch my breath
before I can
I slip
slide
descend
a lifeless
useless
catch

d

e

e

p

f

a

d

e

Posted by Jennifer Liston

Today nothing I read inspired me to write a poem (or maybe everything I read inspired me and I was overcome with choice), so I began to think about excuses.

The dog ate poem number 23.5, so here is poem number 24.

Why?

There are times when
the mind
needs a break,
takes off
to let off
steam,
takes on
a teen-ish tint:
disappears to watch Dr Who re-runs and write fan fiction;
vamooses to discuss time travel with little green men;
heads to McDonald's to drown in a McFlurry;
sings and dances on bedroom-floor-stored clothes;
glances at the leaning tower of poemwork and goes out for a swing;
leaves for the land of long and cloudy dreaming;
decides to grow an idea then forgets to water it;
devours two-and-a-half books in one day with time left over;
ambles out of its room at the last minute;
questions quantum physics and names the stars but can't find its sports shoes;
saunters away from you mid-conversation;
sits texting, reading and watching Dr Who re-runs (again);
meanders through bookshops in a heavenly state;
holds its secrets close and its mysteries near.

Butthenyourmindreturnsandhugsyoutightlyandtellsyoubreathlessly
thatitlovesyouandbakesyouthetastiestchocolate-muffinypoems
thatweresoworththewait.

Posted by Jennifer Liston