30.6.16 (#180) constant rain by Myron Lysenko

constant rain
during the holidays
howling wind

Barbara Temperton #28 - Cruising IX: Pasar Badung Denpasar

I come a fortnight after the fire,

market building razed at night:

food vendors pack the square below

the blackened, gutted pasar,

air thick with ripe fruit aroma,

dried fish, spices, an acrid overlay.

I navigate poorly - not in need of food,

tidak terima kasih,  black puddles underfoot -

until a woman guides me underground

to carpark basement and textile traders

where for 150,000 rupiah 

I buy three red fans with golden fringes.

Rosemary Nissen-Wade #30.2 (and farewell): 30 Days of Delight

30 Days of Delight

To my companions at Project 366

Every morning

I bring my coffee

and come to the feast,

where I linger.

I meet beauty – my reason

for this whole lifelong

engagement with poetry,

and passion for visual art.

I find quirkiness, laughter,

deep thought

and deeper feelings –

great nourishment.

Oh, I like

poems to get my teeth into,

to devour in gulps, or to savour;

tasty, piquant images,

and others that slake thirst.

So I’m sorry to leave you, and

like Penelope (who just said goodbye)

after 30 days of making poems,

I notice I’m tired. It’s surprising.

‘Writing begets writing’

I said at the outset.

And so it has been. A pouring.

More than one a day.

A delight. A fervour.

(Not taking anything out

of my life – oh, except housework

and exercise. Adding this in.)

I realise now, it must have taken

invisible reserves of energy.

Would persistence have increased

fatigue or stamina? I won’t know.

‘It is never any use

dwelling on goodbyes,’

a wise person, whose name

I’m too lazy to look up now, said.

‘It is not the being together

it prolongs. It is the parting.’ Yes.

The time has come to say goodbye.

And so, my sweets, let us part.

I’ll never grow too old to dream;

still your art will live in my heart.

(Now that I’ve got you all weepy –

don’t panic, I’ll be lurking and reading.)

Kit Kelen #182 - carpe diem (dashed off minifesto)

182

carpe diem

dashed off minifesto

let the poem be of this present round

worn through with tinkering

the animal can work it out

the dark is deeper than the day

and in those words the rain

it does involve moving wheelbarrows in

ever smaller circles

no season will ever

be repeated

we're never here again

you don't go round again

that was sung

to the tune of 'the silk washing stream'

across which the old kingdom lies

and come to it through prayers said dreaming

there's no other way but blessed

P.S. Cottier #30 (and last) ‘…neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.’

‘…neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.’

Life is walking the dogs,
squatting after them
with a roll of plastic bags
unrolling like an unsavoury tongue.
It happens unexpectedly,
as you try a new recipe,
or opt for the reliable tomato,
always close to hand, and
toss it through a thoughtless pasta —
an old squishy friend
long run to seed, half-seen,
through being seen so much.


Revelations happen,
but most of us are not
St Joan, and God speaks
on a muffled, cracked phone
when we are half listening,
marinating in the mundane
in our accustomed way.
The pause between heartbeats
is more eloquent than any sermon —
that flicker of self; the bandwidth
not quite enough for all the data.
We are walking into God
each day, as we smell the onions,
or squat for the mutts in
a strange, mimetic act.

One day soon, I’ll obtain a clear line.
One day soon the very last walk,
and the darkened screen
pure light, and a meal,
such a meal, as will never end.

P.S. Cottier

The title is from John 10:28 KJV

***

After 30 poems in 30 days, I am very tired.  I'll leave it to the rest of you now!  I blog at pscottier.com, and it's best to visit on Tuesdays.

Gail Hennessy #30 Aerodynamics

Aerodynamics

 

Triumphantly she calls from the top of the slippery dip, ‘look at me'. Today is her birthday. She is two. Minute against the oak tree backdrop, she has scaled Kosciusko. 'You did it' I call and she's off, sledding the slide in a whoop of joy. Suspended from the cage of bars she swings as confidently as any orang-utan, her arms willing her body back and forth and I must quell any sign of concern. Who is this woman I have become? Aware of so many dangers, wanting to shield, contain. I need to wear a different mask.

 

first flight
leap from the nest
winging it

 

Gail Hennessy  2016.

 

Rosemary Nissen-Wade #30: The Advantages of Poetry

The Advantages of Poetry

Be faithful to your calling.

It will not desert you.

(You will doubt this at times,

when it seems to take leave of absence,

but trust. It WILL come back.) 

Poetry won't keep you warm

on cold nights,

but will help you celebrate

those who do

(every coupling 

a secret threesome)

and console you

after they depart.

It might not make you rich

but you'll think

your poverty's worth it.

You'll always

have someone to talk to.

Poetry is not a partner

who'll dump you after just one dance.

Poetry wants to go home with you.

And if you can't dance,

poetry will teach you.

Poetry will happily 

get wasted with you –

and in the morning

you'll both look worse for wear.

Later, though,

poetry will help you straighten out.

If the power goes off,

you only need a candle

and some kind of notebook

with keyboard or pen.

You can do without TV

or someone else's novel.

It won't feed you

but it can make you forget about meals, 

and any other hunger or thirst 

except the ache for perfection

of word or line.

No matter what goes wrong,

no matter how helpless you feel,

there is always this to do.

And when everything's right

and beautiful

and buoyant,

poetry enables you

to hold the moment a whole lot longer,

then to return for more.

(With poetry, there is no such thing

as being too greedy.)

Poetry doesn't care

about fame and status. 

You do –

and it may or may not happen –

but to poetry it's simply irrelevant.

You want someone to read your poetry,

someone to hear your words.

You're allowed to want that; it's natural.

And there will be those who do.

Cherish them, even if they are not many.

But know, as well,

that if you stand outside and speak your poetry,

be it in a shout or a whisper,

the trees will hear, and the air.

When you read your words over to yourself, silently,

angels and spirits will stand at your shoulder

reading too, noticing the pictures and the music.

And when the words are nowhere but in your mind,

God perceives them, who put them there.

#28 Seaweed by Emma McKervey

Seaweed

The seaweed dries slowly, small decorative curls

which have been artfully spread among the stone

and shell scavenged from the beach.

As the seaweed dries salt crystallises on the rubbery skin.

As it dries farther and the moisture evaporates entirely

the tiny crystals drop and lie without direction on the sill.

On closer inspection it is realised how precisely formed they are –

cubic solids on a minute scale. Midst the careful arrangement

of conch and pebble  this fallen saline is perfection.

Béatrice Machet # 162-163 ABSENCE

absence

a feeling that only living creatures can suffer  with

all their breath tears fevers and despair

absence

as silent as a muted cry

as dark as a shadow in the daylight

and this very shadow

is it bearing us or do we carry it …

l’absence

un sentiment que seuls les êtres vivants souffrent de tout

leur souffle larmes fièvres et désespoir

absence

silencieuse  pareille au cri tu

aussi sombre qu’une ombre à la lumière du jour

et cette ombre précisément

nous supporte-t-elle  ou bien est-ce nous qui la portons …

Lies Van Gasse #179

(dag 1-168)

Ik bekijk het spel van deze gezichten
en in dit spel verlies ik mijn naam,
verlaat ik mijn bedding,
trek ik aan mijn wortels,
verspil ik mijn gezicht.

Gezichtloos aanroep ik de zwarte pagina’s,
gezichtloos verlies ik mij in een wolk van houtskool,
gezichtloos trek ik onbegrijpelijke lijnen,

(day 1-168)

I watch the game of all these names,

I watch the game of these faces
and in this game I loose my name,
I leave my bed,
I pull my roots,
I squander my face.

Faceless I invoke the black pages,
faceless I loose myself in a cloud of charcoal,
faceless I draw incomprehensible lines,

Claine Keily #29 Instructions

The instructions he gave
to the tailor
were specific

He chewed gum
and his face was sunburnt
he used these things
as an excuse
when she complained
she had not been introduced

But despite his pain
and his garbled language
he ordered expensive material
for her
for which she could find no use

Red Cone (LF)#177- Leaving

Leaving

He wondered what his
final words would be
I'm going now he said
we there
his wife his sister and me
leap to our feet
and clutch his hands

eight years later
she wants to leave
it is his birthday
I fly interstate to be
with her
her breathing is quick and short
her green eyes look upwards
unseeing
I sit with her I sing to her
I talk to her I cling to her
she murmurs her pet name for me
she knows I am there

when I do leave the room
a blue flash of light hits me
I quickly return
she is still
her breath has left
still looking upwards
her green eyes lifeless

June 29

my loving mother
I still miss her

Susan Hawthorne #181 bombs

an airport we spent many hours
six occasions in just a few weeks
odd when you think

                                 had we travelled
one year later maybe we'd have taken
a direct hit

                 random acts of violence
where the victim is a type not a person
are unsettling not knowing when it
will be you

                   Facebook tells me you are safe
but what does it mean? today the airport
tomorrow Taksim Square just around the
corner from where you work

                                               you can call on
all the gods you know and all the gods
you don't believe in   which ones will save us?

Lizz Murphy - Poem 181: Shortage (found poetry)

SHORTAGE

score

essence movements

hand holding patterns

black minimalist

forefront ideas

dynamic intention

standing contrast

opted experimental

capable works

fluidity approach

gripping process

twice step

ambitious changes

— Found poem using random words from an 

article in Panorama, Canberra Times June 25, 2016

Rachael Mead # 29, The anniversary

The anniversary

Tonight another year ticks over.

I bought a bottle of wine.

After a glass, you take the camera

into the night and with your laser  

leap like a Gondwanan firefly

before the shutter’s lazy blink.

I raise eyebrows at you

through the window. You laugh.

It’s not always about the big picture.

Back in the warmth,

you work at the laptop.

My inbox chimes. I open your gift.

Chaos bares its secret logic.

The number twenty-two

glowing, perfectly serifed,

etched on the night with fire.

Mikaela Castledine #181 Two Questions

What to do with the things I have taken

out of the drawers I am clearing?

the honeymoon diary

the high school calculator

letters to my son from my grandmother

photos I could be proud of

decades worth of cheque books

cds tapes red dots stationery

a not negotiable stamp an old address

name tags staple gun old passport pictures

some things to bin some to keep safe

What to put in the drawers I have emptied?

29.6.16 (#179) the now by Myron Lysenko

the now

of then suddenly

gone

Robert Verdon, #190, Voyage

In expectation she stood

numb as driftwood,

in a swirl of tannic breeze

on a middling beach by a desert,

horizon swirling out like a skirt;

spokeshaved days falling away,

glissando summers gone, stars

winking in new ginger beer, new

friends with carefree caressing hands,

vanished;

this star, this sun, a hot iron fallen over,

the untarnished sand lambswool,

yet her bare feet sting;

and she can touch with her mind only

the guttering shadow of a

remembered myrtle,

and as the night falls,

begin to sing.

#179 Kevin Brophy 'What is this picture?'

#179 ‘What is this picture?’

If there was sand everywhere outside

And the days were always sunny

And nearly everyone went barefoot

And the boys wore football jumpers,

And the women wore colourful cast offs,

If the cars had children on their roofs,

And if the shop shut in the early afternoon

And the mail arrived only once a week

And each sunset outdid the last

And if the birds would not leave

And no one collected the rubbish

And only a few seemed to do any work

And the evenings started early and went on

With singing and drumming around the place

And hardly anyone combed their hair any more

And even the school teachers let their hair down

And cooking on coals was what everyone did

And there was a lake nearby where you could swim

Or watch the water birds in their hundreds bob,

If the roads were there for the children to play on

And people sat at a table out in the open, talking,

Would you think you were on a holiday?

#178 Kevin Brophy 'Look'

# 178 ‘Look’

I have been reading the last poems

a friend wrote as she died.

The poems are full of nights, ghosts,

butterflies, birds and sounds.

I am also reading a book called Everywhere I Look

and it is true, I do.

The last poems don’t say goodbye

thankfully.

They say, look at this and then look at this

and if you must close your eyes, bump into this.

Once she writes that she is impatient now,

and I like that.

I hope, like her, I am impatient for tomorrow

when the time comes.

Meanwhile, everywhere, I look.