Monday, December 30, 2013

Indeterminate seasons.

It is a Tuesday morning, New Years eve.  I'm sitting on a couch in my parents place with the laptop.  opposite me my brother plays guitar.  After three weeks of grey skies the sun has made a comeback tour, and everything it touches is uncomfortably hot.
I am ignoring the new year while I can.  Not because I find it frightening or foreboding.  Nor that I have anything wrong with celebrations over more or less arbitrary reasons.  I look forward to making new years resolutions that bear striking similarities to all the previous years' ones.  And I don't hold particular fondness for this passing year - there are large parts of it I am very glad to see put behind me.  I am ignoring the new year as I am not yet finished with the old.  I still need about a week or so of debrief to evaluate and analyse my performance.  I don't think I will get one.  I'll have to settle for a year shoved messily behind me, drawstrings hanging out.  The lessons I've learnt will have to be kept in my heart rather than bullet pointed in a yearly review and that's a bit of a pain - my heart's about as well arranged as my room usually is.  Finding those lessons isn't going to be easy.
Before tonight I'm going to have to turn around and face the new year.  Hopefully I'll have found some reckless optimism by then.  This blog may soon be repurposed, but for now here is another poem.


  Indeterminate seasons

Here come the months that last forever!
come November, come December!
January with your fair weather,
Forget that it's all we remember.
Forgot, thirty thousand afternoons grey,
stirring cups of tea, and if we say
we might or could, perhaps we may
do something, but we won't today

nor well into February.

Monday, October 21, 2013

A Haibun, part of the ENG217 stuff.

I've in retrospect learned that I'm probably butchering this form, and missed the point, (the lecturer spoke obliquely of how many people put these in their portfolio with mixed success) but I still like this one, and It taught me a lot about much shorter poems.





Wave Theory.

His hands still quiver long after the door has stopped swinging. It stacks up. From commuter lanes swirling to the catalogue flow of nature reserve sliced into suburbia,

The isolation
has a way of affecting
everything.







Thursday, September 26, 2013

More ENG217 Stuff

We auctioned off first lines and I got this one.  I'm fairly happy with this.

Nights of Elijah

At three a.m. a small voice knocks
With blunt butter-knife consistency
And guides me, catatonic sleeper
to the kitchen table - set for tea.
A small voice existing entirely on it's inside
Like angels and jelly filled donuts,
and the songs that make the young girls go nuts -
At two a.m. a mouth of fire
Devoured the house; it burnt the curtains
and the pelmets,
smashed the glass and muntin bars.
I was terribly afraid,
when it cauterised the shadows to the walls,
I woke and sweat poured down my face
but you were not in the blaze.
At ten thousand feet I thought of when you sing,
the shadow of a flock of geese went jetting by the wing.
And as the cockpit bent
in inevitable descent
I hoped the ground would bring my end
but I awoke
At one a.m,
Before the scuttling of many little legs -
the myriad things I do not know.
Some small ghost may have come,
some ten thousand rooms shook
But all the atoms shook together,
a dizzying celestial snow-globe.
I could not hide anything
for I was at once everything
yet in an instant nothing,
and it was embarrassing
as when asked what one is thinking
and they don't want to say
but it's obvious.
"What are you thinking?" (In your small way):
that you were not in the shaking
That I've been having strange dreams.
That I nearly came down to the kitchen
when a fierce gale came passing through
But it wasn't you.


Monday, July 15, 2013

Eng217 Assignment no.1

I'm doing a paper this semester that ought to help my writing, namely the doing it.  Hopefully it will prompt me to get around to writing all the things I ought to; poems, emails, letters, articles, puzzles, stories, apologies etc.


Such Is Life.

Mutts will squeeze through chicken wire for girls in heat.
I don't blame Ray, the two had met each other, and I'd like to think
some romance was involved. They had achieved together
what neither could have done on their own

She liked to lie under the crag down by the chestnuts.
We buried her there before the frosts.
Ray brought a perfunctory headboard and a silent apology.

"A bitch in time saves nine" the epitaph; I kept five
and Ray took four. Nestled in a rubbish bag in a box
Blind eyed, barely knowing their mother's bite.

"Your dog" gruffed Ray, taking back the vivid. I agreed.
She had been mine, and I was one for puns
She'd heard her share, or just about,

enough to know one more when she goes.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

The days are cold but my hands are moving.


I have been writing, but haven't been posting it on here.  Will that change?  Man, I hope so.  And if hope is all I have, it's enough.  This poem was an attempt to ask a question; I'm not going to come back to it.


Insubstantial Morsel, Immolated Cup.

Held reverent, clutched tight against your chest,
much like important books in rainy days,
Your ever shredding truth hypothesis;
the ever present symbolism haze.
This is His flesh, and, this is not a pipe
His blood, thick on our garments, red and loose:
I offer you an insubstantial slice
of wholemeal bread and watered down grape juice.

This, the triumph of the greatest miracle?
This fundamental turning point of time
When Truth stood true both figurative and literal
Is given, then denied that it be mine?
I clutch my bible close against the rain
that erodes; re-affirms; erodes again.

Friday, November 30, 2012

Here is silence.


It's an odd feeling labouring over a poem.  A lot of time and work is put into a small body of text, and it can feel a bit overworked.  At the same time there is a reward when even a single line feels weighty and  full.  This is not quite one of those poems; I'm still working on them.  But I like this one, though I feel like I've posted in an earlier state.

Here Is Silence.

We do not stand together
I am tethered;
You're a feather.

And I must carry on
I am strong;
You are gone.

I would ask what turned your back
On this hard track
Don't answer that.

My questions fall away
There is an absence
Where you lay.

And I may never go inland;
Grasp your hand;
Understand.

The absence where you lay
I questioned on the day-
Answers you will never say.

We do not stand together;
I am tethered
Here forever.







Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Mid November Remember.

I've finally finished reading the 30 days with jesus - a year after starting.  The poems will take longer; I will probably miss days, and I'm striving now to work and rework pieces, especially ones I wish to make important for myself.  There are always others though, in the meantimes.


Rough Discards

The wind gushes!
the wind rushes!
the wind stumbles, and utters
curses, and shakes its fist at the skies.

Its scrape dislodges stars, that tumble
in a cascade that rumbles
off the great clouds that fumble
and roll their dark eyes.

The stars are spelt
that clatter and melt
and they felt
cold when they settled on my arm.

This proves to me thus
that what's dislodged are husks
to melt into dust
while you brightly shine on.