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Tanunda Show Clowns. Photo by Robert Rath from Robert’s website.

I’ve been writing a poem a day and publishing it here each April for the last few years. In 2012 I wrote a fun ‘nonsense’ poem called ‘Washing the hog’ which I had a lot of positive feedback for, so I thought it was time for another one.

Gobbling the gook

You bimp me glain an blup me guld
to nink el seet sotiros
I bimp de flayne, your gurpy trud
we ninkie vell de leerus.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspLet’s hippna way me wanti cheer
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsphipp no weemy thayring
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspwe’ll fing de naypa ciggidy heer
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspan you kin ripty claring.

An you kin vane de bibbly bung
an you kin stawn de neep-o
coz win you slean I run de ween
an wan to bing de kleap-o.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspLet’s hippna way me wanti cheer
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsphipp no weemy thayring
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspwe’ll fing de naypa ciggidy heer
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspan you kin ripty claring.

I capta loovie you.
You manka cooby me.
We fing de sakay noo
an ripty chaky vee.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspLet’s hippna way me wanti cheer
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsphipp no weemy thayring
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspwe’ll fing de naypa ciggidy heer
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspan you kin ripty claring.

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspLet’s hippna way me wanti cheer
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsphipp no weemy thayring
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspwe’ll fing de naypa ciggidy heer
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbspan you kin ripty claring.

The Change. Photo by Robert Rath from Robert’s website.

It’s day 21 and we’re at the cusp of two astrological signs, Aries and Taurus.

Change

An unseasonally warm north wind
has blown up,
knocking over the bins,
unsettling the dog,
heating this cool brick house;
it whooshes away the gum leaves
that have built up in our driveway
and around our front door;
its sad rounded edges buffet me
as I take in the washing;
it carries wistful grit that sticks to my skin
and stings my alien eyes;
it sighs and sighs as it portends
endings and clearings and whys and mendings
and the beginnings of a cool change.

Planet Posidonia. Photo by Robert Rath from over here at Robert’s website.

This morning I spotted an ad for ‘Quantum Jumping’, which is a meditation program of some sort. I was particularly taken with the line ‘…on an inter-dimensional quest for a better you…’.

What I enjoyed more, however, was Skepacabra’s sceptical take on it; some of the comments are brilliant. (But be prepared to fall into a time warp if you start to read them.)

Today’s poem is a somewhat tongue-in-cheek response to this pseudo-scientific gift-wrapping and online hawking (sorry!) of our mental capabilities.

That quantum leap

I want to jump between universes
on an inter-dimensional quest for a better me,
with a multi-dimensional scream
I grip white-knuckle-tightly to the silver mental strands
that keep me connected to here, now,
and when I land with my spine intact
(in spite of subjective sneakers weighted down by doubt)
and lugging a backpack of questions
I will wander, amazed,
through the unfamiliar maze of familiar, meet
my past, other-present, or future self
and ask for advice on how to write better poems
and songs, how to play the piano like a pro,
how to be the best version of me
and finally ask:
why have you never jumped into my universe?

Simply Beautiful Bokeh. Photo by Robert Rath from over here at Robert’s website.

This afternoon I (re)watched the 1986 movie ‘Children of a Lesser God’ starring William Hurt and Marlee Matlin (she won an Oscar for her performance). Sarah Norman (Marlee Matlin) is a deaf woman who works at a school for the deaf and hard of hearing. James Leeds (William Hurt) is a speech teacher at the school. Although they fall in love with each other, conflict occurs because he wants her to learn to talk but she doesn’t want to. The movie ends with them reconciling and William Hurt’s character saying: “Is there someplace that we can meet that’s not in silence and not in sound?”

This turned out to be the prompt for today’s poem.

Half-way house

Somewhere between silence and sound
beginnings and ends curl around
each other, blending and fending off the in-between;
lips part in surprise:
an unheard word half-forms and fades,
a lemon-scented intention on the exhale.

In the no-man’s land between silence and sound
the air is spare and the earth is mute;
your cells stir and your blood simmers
and you marshal your resources for quiet combat.

Then there’s that place
half-way between silence and sound
when he might look at you
and lean in to kiss you.

Preparations. Photo by Robert Rath from over here at Robert’s website.

I slipped into a cool virtual rabbit hole today. I came across poet John Gallaher who posted some poems by another poet, Alfred Starr Hamilton.

Today’s poem (including rhymes and word transitions) is modelled closely on Hamilton’s wonderful ‘Cinderella’ (which you can read if you scroll down to Gallaher’s post dated Saturday March 23, 2013).

It looks fairly simple, but in fact it was quite challenging to find a useful combination of compound words and rhymes while maintaining a surrealist feel.

Snow White

after ‘Cinderella’ by Alfred Starr Hamilton

were you ever a little skylark
out in the dark
not too tiny a skylark
but a little skylark
and the way was dark

were you ever a little skylark
out in the sky
not a big sky
but a little sky
and the way was dark

and you had your light with you
not too big a light
but a little light
and your name was Snow White

wonderfully you were invited
to marry a prince
not too proud a prince
but a perfect prince
and you had your light with you

Sticky Canopy. Photo by Robert Rath from over here at Robert’s website.

Over the last couple of days I’ve been reading some wonderful poetry by Medbh McGuckian and Lorna Crozier. Today’s short poem is kind of a Q&A with myself about why I should write at all, when so many others do it so brilliantly.

Perspective

And you ask yourself: who am I
to explore the delicate skin of things,
to inspect the thin beliefs
that puncture a hungry earth?

Others are more fluent, more able
to unravel the knotted strands of ordinary and
irregular; more able to conjure
wisps of what was known, fragments
that pray to be remembered.

And then you realise: only I
see the folds I see,
only I am in my own place,
only I stand where I stand
in the long shadow of this glittery mystery.

Whose Planet Is This?. Photo by Robert Rath from over here at Robert’s website.

Day 16’s poem had its starting point in this gorgeous photo of yesterday’s blood moon by Robert Rath. I played with words and transitions based on sound and/or meaning and managed to find my way back to the blood moon.

Riff on a blood moon

blood moon
cut noon
cup spoon
dub tune
lux tone
flex stone
vexed bones
text moan
lapsed bond
taps wand
traps frond
bats abscond
the rhythm of a couplet is hypnotic
the prism of a public is myopic
the literal and the average are narcotic
the lunacy of language is hematic

Cheltenham Cemetery. Image courtesy Adelaide Cemeteries Authority (www.aca.sa.gov.au).

Day 15 and it’s the half-way mark. Today, some lovely poem-y friends and I went to Cheltenham Cemetery, one of the oldest cemeteries in Adelaide. This poem is an early capture of some of my ideas from the visit.

Notes from Cheltenham Cemetery

Here in Cheltenham Cemetery, graves marked
with pale blond sandstone and polished marble
shimmer in caustic sun.
Simple announcements and elaborate shrines,
artificial bouquets and gold-lettered monuments
are evidence of thousands mourned
and then there are the weathered stones:
stories erased,
no traces remain.

It’s peaceful here
there’s a resigned gravitas
like that which follows a thunderstorm
or a terrible loss
and you try to imagine
Annie Sheeran in the harsh light
burying her young husband James
and a few days later,
her four-year-old daughter Annie

and the traffic sounds die away
and factory sounds fade
and the birdsong becomes stronger.

The elements have had their way with this place.
Along the edges of the path, gum tree roots push the earth to offer up its catch
while elsewhere, the ground has sunk into coffin-sized hollows,
sucking headstones and grave markers with it,
making room for more stratification:
layers of dead
on layers of dead
on layers of dead.

The deadly sun and sharp sky
offer no relief
to the ordered rows of

names &nbsp&nbsp&nbspnames &nbsp&nbsp&nbspnames &nbsp&nbsp&nbspnames
dates &nbsp&nbsp&nbspdates &nbsp&nbsp&nbspdates &nbsp&nbsp&nbspdates
in loving memory of &nbsp&nbsp&nbspin loving memory of

and jar with the mayhem of
lives lived, celebrated, mourned and forgotten here
and you try to imagine Edward and Joan
burying Barbara, aged seven, accidentally killed.

Here, in the shade of a tree, a modest car is parked
and an elderly woman and her son polish the black stone
of a grave, place fresh daffodils in the jar
on the fresh-turned, dry red dust

and I think of Kilmurray Cemetery
where my father and mother rest,
on the other side of the world,
the earth there is so lush
compared to the thirsty earth here
but it makes no difference:
the end is the same.