Poem of the Month - April 2011

There are times in every poet's life when the poetry does not come. It slips into the background while other parts of the mind get on with more serious, non-poetry work. I don't know how other poets manage but I find it really hard, well impossible really, to gear up my poetry brain while undertaking a real job - you know, a job that involves organisational skills, project management skills, leadership and problem solving blah blah.

I seem to manage all those everyday work tasks really well, which makes me wonder if I am a poet at all. Am I a pretender. I suppose I will find out in due course, but if poets are prone to angst, gnashing of teeth and emotional blubbering like this drivel maybe I do have a touch of the poet in me.

I am reluctant to inflict bad poetry on anyone but I want to document the kind of poetry I write when I am feeling at my lowest creative point. So apologies in advance.

This is Not a Poem

A poem must rhyme or at least have rhythm
It must have a theme and some strong symbolism
There aren't many rules but it must be appealing
If you don't want the listener to turn their head screaming

That this is the worst thing they have ever yet heard
It is like hearing a screech owl not a dove or lovebird
And the poetry judges will scoff and deride
At another sad wannabe taking a ride

On the coat tails of the masters, who recite with pride
Their own pearls of wisdom and  pat each other on the back
Never succumbing to the profane misuse of metre and time
Who uphold the tradition of those long dead
And who invoke, with every syllable, the creed that says
Poets stand next to God in the order of things and the universe.

Poem of the Month - October 2010

A long time ago (well around 20 years at least) when I was 'learning' to write poetry our teacher asked us to write a parody of another 'well known' poem. I don't quite remember what the point of this exercise was, except that maybe it is similar to how many art schools make students copy the great artists before they are allowed to paint what they like.

This is not a good thing, in many ways, and probably the main reason why we see so many bad attempts at Monet's Waterlilies, Boticelli-style cherubs, even cans of soup a la Warhol. I suppose there are valid reasons for this. I am not a fan of getting students of any kind to attempt copies of other work - art, and poetry, should be new and different, each piece telling a new story, or at least an old story in a new way.

Wondering what to provide as October's poem however has had me a bit stumped. Other writing currently underway has not allowed for much creativity. the weather hasn't helped. Like many other Melbournians, many of whom have obviously chosen October to get married (if the number of wedding photo shoots we witnessed in the city and Dandenongs last week is anything to go by), I am well and truly over the cold and windy Melbourne winter that still refuses to give way to spring.

So while it is old, and a kind of copycat poem, this is my offering for this month. Do you know who wrote the original, and what it was called?

One-eyed Beauty

(or "Melbourne in Winter")

Glory be for life in monochrome;
For skies of many-layered gristle-grey;
The season when any sensible living thing
Will try to find a way to stay at home;
Landscape potholed and plaintive - foul, frazzled and clay.
And tradesmen will need for their supper to sing,
For no-one will have work for them to do;
Whatever is boring, bogged-down (who knows why?)
But when in silent stupor, snorers sleepily bring
Themselves out of hibernation - winter's through:

Thank God.

 1991

Poem of the Month - September 2010

Lately I have been looking back over my old poetry to work out what to put in a retrospective collection I am preparing for publication. It occurred to me that it is hard for others to tell which poems are autobiographical, which ones are about other 'real' people and which ones are total fantasy. I also realised that I don't write a lot of fictional poetry, just about everything comes from experience of some sort.

I have made the mistake before of sharing poems with others and having them think it is my life I have written about when it is absolutely not. I have also sent things out there into the world that are very much related to my personal life and the message has come back that 'that wouldn't really happen' or 'that is just so not about you'. I wonder about the image I present when I have to fight to exert what is really me and what isn't. Maybe I shouldn't bother about this at all, and just let the poems stand on their own.

But just in case you are wondering, this poem was written by me and about me during a particularly dark time in my life as an employee.

















A (Confused) Day in the Life of Clara V. Pentubis*

Interminable hours!
Each day an eternity.
Home! Where I can be me,
Where I can be free.

Clock-watching,
It’s a crime!
No-one should be forced
to labour in this mausoleum.

Occasionally,
Another grey-skinned
Dull-eyed member of the clan
Shuffles by and half-smiles
On the way to the storeroom
- Graveyards have more life.

The fax machine
Roars into activity,
Breaking the silence.
Then, its duty done,
Sinks once more to silence,
With a plaintive cry.

Sending its own summons,
The switchboard comes to life.
Time for someone to swing into action.

Those with some presence of mind turn in unison
Anticipatorily.
Clara silently pleads, “Is it for me?”
“Is it my turn?”

Alas, it’s for the man upstairs.
It’s always for him,
Never for Clara.
He doesn’t even know
How to make good use of it.

Clara sighs, ‘If it rang for me,
You’d really see me
Swing into action!’

Trouble is, Clara knows
That in this place,
Swinging is dangerous.

It also requires energy.
And that leads to cynicism.
Or worse still, questioning.
Who knows where that might lead?

Morning tea-time shuffle;
Nods of recognition at the urn, grumbles about sugar granules
That have migrated to the coffee jar
Are soon forgotten in the scramble
For ownership of the sports section.

Clara doesn’t want the sports, she is immersed in the jobs.
Plenty of them, but none require the services of
Worn-out brain-dead mind-numbed
Lazy-loafing, pen-pushing
Government Slaves.

They’re a dying race. A rare breed.
Interbred, made to order.
No way in. No way out.

Wait! Take a package.
And after that?
What have all the years
Taught you? Good for nothing!
Too young to retire,
Too old to start again.

Idea! Take a sickie
(Or a whole week of sickies)
And think about it.
Take your time,

Feel good about yourself.
At her lonely desk at the end of the hall,
(How long is it till lunchtime?)
Clara sinks into the encircling womb
(Or is that tomb) of worthless words on paper.

No one hears her curses, sighs,
Notices her muffled cry,
Or sees her hands raised towards the sky.

Questions go unheard, unanswered,
A heart is breaking, unrequited
Defeat is final.

Folded arms pressed to her chest,
She bends her head in quiet despair
And numbs her senses, avoiding care
Why make believe life can survive
When the spirit cannot thrive.

July 1994

*Clara V. Pentubis is an anagram

Poem of the Month - August 2010

Winter is such an unpredictable season. Having been lured into believing this year would be the kind year, yesterday was spent blissfully walking along the beach, enjoying the freedom of the outdoors.

Today was a different story. A late breakfast had us thinking we would enjoy a visit to the backbeach - shortly afterwards this dream was demolished. Just as well we had a movie to watch, and it was a good opportunity to get my blogs into order. Even the cat was happy to come indoors at midday, and after a few tentative attempts to venture outdoors afterwards, finally decided that our bed was a much more interesting place to be.

Anyway, all is not lost. Yesterday's mild afternoon inspired a suite of haiku. It is good to feel a bit creative again.

Winter on the Peninsula

Little seaweed clumps
Fragile bracelets flank the shore
Armed against the tide

Seas of grey silence
Sky luminescent and cold
Nature wins the day

Moment of passion -

Haunting, crisp, dramatic, bold
Lustful wind kisses

Heavy-lidded clouds

Liquid-drenched magic carpets

Wander, watch, and wait.


Robert Frost wrote a lovely poem about winter in America, where the season actually gets serious. So, by way of contrasting poems and countries, here is Frost's masterpiece, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.