I read in the paper recently that a new movie on the life of John Keats, called Bright Star (would I were as steadfast as thou art...) will be released in a few weeks. Like many who will read this blog, I came to know Keats as an impressionable teenager, and have loved his poetry ever since. I was reminded that he died at age 25, and was very ill for all of his adult life, which makes his beautiful and emotionally mature poems all the more remarkable. I can still recite many lines from several of his better-known poems, and often turn to them when I am feeling sad and sorry for myself.
Like these powerful opening lines from Ode on a Grecian Urn:
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thou express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme
I was amazed to read that over two hundred and forty of Keats's letters survive and form the basis of Bright Star. I will most certainly be heading to see it as a Christmas treat to myself - selfishly, I am not willing to share this moment with anyone and if I could command a whole theatre to myself while I watched it I would.
Good poetry is incredibly moving. It plays with the senses, the emotions, the soul. If I can ever get close to writing a couple of lines that are anywhere as good as Keats poorest work I will consider myself a successful poet. In the meantime, I have to keep working on achieving and surpassing my own personal best.
This poem may well fall short of being good, let alone my best, it may not stir an emotion or the senses in the reader, but it is my offering for this festive month and I hope it holds some merit. It is also my Ode to Keats.
Small packets of joy release the frozen heart.
(An Ode to John Keats)
Long have I sat and wept
As a film played out a tale of love and loss,
With red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks
Have I felt the pain of being human,
Each time I read a new story
Of a heart being broken, a life cut short.
There is something dramatic in all things art -
Yet two centuries of poetry, of lovers,
Of ongoing creation and re-creation
Have failed to approach
The pure perfection of your lines
The melody of your psalms.
These are the gold that other poets
Pan for amongst the grit, and rarely find.
Your sylvan images convey more truth
Than a stroll along the Delphian path of grass and stone.
A modern-day oracle of sorts, I bow
In homage to your published works.
And grieve for the others that remain
Unrecorded and unheard.
Their pleasure, pain and hopefulness linger, soft and present,
Within your letters, true and strong
Preserved by those who loved you then
For those of us who came too late,
Yet love profoundly all the same.
Your unwrit lines are greater far
Than measured verse we lesser beings gestate.
You are our master and our muse -
Who know full well that though we strive to emulate,
Apprentices will we remain.
I will not forget you, or your love
For life, your passion, or your home
But I will not weep or pine for you.
At times when I am low, in need of life support,
You will, as ever, walk about,
Softly, in my imagination.
December, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Poem of the Month - November 2009
I found out recently that lyricists are in short supply. I thought they would be a dime a dozen. Having written dozens of lyrics for songs and kept them hidden from the world, maybe the time has come to announce that I exist.
So if you are a songwriter looking for some great words to turn into lots of money, look no further. I am here to help- who knows, a great partnership may be waiting!
Here is an example:
Who could have known?
When you were seven and I was six
I made mud pies, you did magic tricks
You built me a castle out of cardboard boxes
Who would have known where it all would lead.
When I left school you were working hard
To save for a house with a big backyard
So you would be able to show the world
Just how grown up you were and how far you would go.
Three years later we made our vows
And our parents were standing there together, so proud
The world was turning just the way it should
The future was a promise, and our fate was sealed.
Who could have known as the world grew older
That our love would slowly become much colder
That one day soon I would have no shoulder
To lean on, and the fire in your heart would smoulder.
(three verses have been omitted - please request)
Who could have known as the world grew older
That our love would slowly become much colder
That one day soon I would have no shoulder
To lean on, and the fire in your heart would smoulder.
So if you are a songwriter looking for some great words to turn into lots of money, look no further. I am here to help- who knows, a great partnership may be waiting!
Here is an example:
Who could have known?
When you were seven and I was six
I made mud pies, you did magic tricks
You built me a castle out of cardboard boxes
Who would have known where it all would lead.
When I left school you were working hard
To save for a house with a big backyard
So you would be able to show the world
Just how grown up you were and how far you would go.
Three years later we made our vows
And our parents were standing there together, so proud
The world was turning just the way it should
The future was a promise, and our fate was sealed.
Who could have known as the world grew older
That our love would slowly become much colder
That one day soon I would have no shoulder
To lean on, and the fire in your heart would smoulder.
(three verses have been omitted - please request)
Who could have known as the world grew older
That our love would slowly become much colder
That one day soon I would have no shoulder
To lean on, and the fire in your heart would smoulder.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Poem of the Month - October 2009
Having just returned from my school reunion (we graduated in 1972 - well I technically did a year later but that is another story) I am feeling a bit nostalgic. It is strange how the years can pass and we all do so many things that fill our days and our lives with stories, but going back and being with people who are still recognisable (if a tad older) and much the same in the way they see the world, it almost seemed like I was right back there, at the start. I had to keep kicking myself to remember I am no longer 17 and never will be again.
Which brings me to a poem I wrote a few years ago on this theme, so I thought it was appropriate to publish it here.
Running Through this Shared Life
When I was seventeen
You taught me passion, how to need,
And to set new rules
that made sense of our unique brand of love.
Eighteen was the year of flux,
Of questioning myself.
You were older than your years.
I learnt the boundaries of my existence
Were far from rigid, if they ever existed
In any place other than my mind.
At nineteen
You taught me how to cut the ties.
A new life together, yet innocent
Of ourselves, each other and the world.
Both of us eager to explore,
With no idea of consequences.
The twenties came and went,
Squandered in frivolity
Based on a firm assurance
That we knew all there was to know
About the workings of the world.
Nothing prepared us for the thirties of reality
(domesticity, parenthood, responsibility)
The new rule was, “no rules apply”
Knowledge was gone, replaced by uncertainty.
The darkness hovered …
Into the forties, knowing we would never know,
Instead, damage control was all
Our depleting energy could provide.
We put out spot fires
With tears full of salt and venom,
And took turns to run away.
Our children, loved and forgiving in the chaos,
Were the elastic, ensuring we did not travel
Too far from ourselves,or from each other.
The fifties approaches, and another seachange
Looms, in our escape brains
Will this be another decade of grappling with identity
And the big questions
Or will I finally get to France,
Shall you find your wings?
Let’s hope the time for introspection’s past,
And the future is the time for living true.
A time for action, guided by the rules
Of love, honesty, and hope.
January 2002
Which brings me to a poem I wrote a few years ago on this theme, so I thought it was appropriate to publish it here.
Running Through this Shared Life
When I was seventeen
You taught me passion, how to need,
And to set new rules
that made sense of our unique brand of love.
Eighteen was the year of flux,
Of questioning myself.
You were older than your years.
I learnt the boundaries of my existence
Were far from rigid, if they ever existed
In any place other than my mind.
At nineteen
You taught me how to cut the ties.
A new life together, yet innocent
Of ourselves, each other and the world.
Both of us eager to explore,
With no idea of consequences.
The twenties came and went,
Squandered in frivolity
Based on a firm assurance
That we knew all there was to know
About the workings of the world.
Nothing prepared us for the thirties of reality
(domesticity, parenthood, responsibility)
The new rule was, “no rules apply”
Knowledge was gone, replaced by uncertainty.
The darkness hovered …
Into the forties, knowing we would never know,
Instead, damage control was all
Our depleting energy could provide.
We put out spot fires
With tears full of salt and venom,
And took turns to run away.
Our children, loved and forgiving in the chaos,
Were the elastic, ensuring we did not travel
Too far from ourselves,or from each other.
The fifties approaches, and another seachange
Looms, in our escape brains
Will this be another decade of grappling with identity
And the big questions
Or will I finally get to France,
Shall you find your wings?
Let’s hope the time for introspection’s past,
And the future is the time for living true.
A time for action, guided by the rules
Of love, honesty, and hope.
January 2002
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Poem of the Month - September
I have developed quite a large volume of poems that span three decades, which I call my 'reflective biography'. I guess 'On Reading Robert Frost ...' that I published last month is one of these, if it is a bit lightweight and therefore easy to have on display - perhaps not as personally confronting as some of the others in the set.
Many of the poems that fall into this category are highly emotive, some are blaming, some try to create order out of chaos, some are full of self-pity. A lot of them don't reflect well on me I am sure. But all of them needed to be written. I am sure other poets will identify those times when there is no choice to make, and whether it is good or bad, accurate or inaccurate, there is a universal truth (or perhaps the search for it) that makes the writing necessary. I am sure musicians write tunes, actors act, and dancers dance - but I am none of these, so I write poetry.
I would like to say that some of them are good, but that is not for me to judge. I really don't care if they are good or not, they just are! They are tiny morsels that represent parts of the life I have lived, and moved on from. I could not write any of these poems today, there is no energy for them, but when I read them I recall the power behind the lines and I can say relive the events that led to each one being written.
Here is one that I wrote when I was a young(-ish) mum, wondering what motherhood is all about and what defines a mother. There is some self-pity in this one, I am sure it is easy to spot.
An Ode to the Mother I Never Knew
I’m Forty now, the age they tell me
You were, when you died.
I wasn’t at your funeral,
It wasn’t me who cried.
But I was only sixteen then,
Had other things to do.
And anyway, I didn’t know
A single thing about you.
Not even that you went through pain
Giving birth and giving away.
Not even that I was not theirs,
I had just come to stay.
I’ve spent long hours rationalising,
Sympathising, apologising,
My own thoughts disenfranchising.
What I see now is people
Caught up in their time
Still ruled by a religion
In which illegitimacy was a crime.
This ideology led them,
Excused, and made things right,
How else could they have born the truth
That you made love one night.
You were not married, you had no right
To a child who had no name.
They were married, victims of bad luck
It’s all part of the game.
How I would like the chance to know you,
Know someone who could amplify you,
Clarify you, simplify you.
How did you feel for that nine months?
What did you like to you do?
Did you like to go to shows?
Perhaps a movie or two?
Did you like to read, like me?
Did you like to dance?
Did you go for long, long walks?
Did you long for romance?
Did you sense betrayal,
Banishment for no cause?
Was your time spent cursing,
Or, did you feel remorse?
To me you are so enigmatic,
Static, weightless yet charismatic,
Yet somehow with you I feel empathic.
We’ve led completely different lives,
Would we have liked each other?
I can’t help wondering how life would be
If you had stayed my mother.
October 1995
Many of the poems that fall into this category are highly emotive, some are blaming, some try to create order out of chaos, some are full of self-pity. A lot of them don't reflect well on me I am sure. But all of them needed to be written. I am sure other poets will identify those times when there is no choice to make, and whether it is good or bad, accurate or inaccurate, there is a universal truth (or perhaps the search for it) that makes the writing necessary. I am sure musicians write tunes, actors act, and dancers dance - but I am none of these, so I write poetry.
I would like to say that some of them are good, but that is not for me to judge. I really don't care if they are good or not, they just are! They are tiny morsels that represent parts of the life I have lived, and moved on from. I could not write any of these poems today, there is no energy for them, but when I read them I recall the power behind the lines and I can say relive the events that led to each one being written.
Here is one that I wrote when I was a young(-ish) mum, wondering what motherhood is all about and what defines a mother. There is some self-pity in this one, I am sure it is easy to spot.
An Ode to the Mother I Never Knew
I’m Forty now, the age they tell me
You were, when you died.
I wasn’t at your funeral,
It wasn’t me who cried.
But I was only sixteen then,
Had other things to do.
And anyway, I didn’t know
A single thing about you.
Not even that you went through pain
Giving birth and giving away.
Not even that I was not theirs,
I had just come to stay.
I’ve spent long hours rationalising,
Sympathising, apologising,
My own thoughts disenfranchising.
What I see now is people
Caught up in their time
Still ruled by a religion
In which illegitimacy was a crime.
This ideology led them,
Excused, and made things right,
How else could they have born the truth
That you made love one night.
You were not married, you had no right
To a child who had no name.
They were married, victims of bad luck
It’s all part of the game.
How I would like the chance to know you,
Know someone who could amplify you,
Clarify you, simplify you.
How did you feel for that nine months?
What did you like to you do?
Did you like to go to shows?
Perhaps a movie or two?
Did you like to read, like me?
Did you like to dance?
Did you go for long, long walks?
Did you long for romance?
Did you sense betrayal,
Banishment for no cause?
Was your time spent cursing,
Or, did you feel remorse?
To me you are so enigmatic,
Static, weightless yet charismatic,
Yet somehow with you I feel empathic.
We’ve led completely different lives,
Would we have liked each other?
I can’t help wondering how life would be
If you had stayed my mother.
October 1995
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Poem of the Month - August 2009
One of the first things I learned when I was an undergraduate arts student was that poets read poetry. Just as well I guess, as probably not a lot of other people do these days.
Well it holds true for me. I have my favourites, and close to the top of the list is Robert Frost. There is something about Frost's poetry that rings true - he can even make rhyming verse sound natural. If you don't believe me and you are not familiar with his work, get a hold of 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening'.
I'm not going to publish that one here, but here is my tribute to Robert Frost. I wrote it a lifetime ago when I was a young mum, but it brings back a strong memory of the day I wrote it, sitting in the kitchen, how I was feeling and even the smell of freshly baked cakes on the bench.
On Reading Robert Frost on a Rainy Afternoon
You inspire me.
With simple power your words convey
Such meaning, giving power
To this impoverished soul.
There is no way to tell you,
My words fail.
But, as I read your lines, I sense
My suppressed spirit stirring.
I am inspired to write some lines -
Of triumph over drudgery.
The baby wakes, reminding me
Of who I am today
- a mum, and not a poet, after all.
Inspiration recoils to that dark space,
Abrogating itself to second place
Until it can have its way with me
When passion soars again.
July 1988
Well it holds true for me. I have my favourites, and close to the top of the list is Robert Frost. There is something about Frost's poetry that rings true - he can even make rhyming verse sound natural. If you don't believe me and you are not familiar with his work, get a hold of 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening'.
I'm not going to publish that one here, but here is my tribute to Robert Frost. I wrote it a lifetime ago when I was a young mum, but it brings back a strong memory of the day I wrote it, sitting in the kitchen, how I was feeling and even the smell of freshly baked cakes on the bench.
On Reading Robert Frost on a Rainy Afternoon
You inspire me.
With simple power your words convey
Such meaning, giving power
To this impoverished soul.
There is no way to tell you,
My words fail.
But, as I read your lines, I sense
My suppressed spirit stirring.
I am inspired to write some lines -
Of triumph over drudgery.
The baby wakes, reminding me
Of who I am today
- a mum, and not a poet, after all.
Inspiration recoils to that dark space,
Abrogating itself to second place
Until it can have its way with me
When passion soars again.
July 1988
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Poem of the Month - July 2009
I've always loved writing haiku - a tighly defined structure that is entirely liberating.
This is 'beach set' of poems that appear to enjoy each others' company.
Pink ribbon of sky
farewells the orange sun-globe
swallowed by the sea
Small romping puppy
sprays gold sand delightedly
rearranging the beach
Twilight sea watchers
west-facing, while unwitnessed
The full moon rises
Sky of dusted pink
silent ripples silver blue
evening’s stage is set
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Poem of the Month - June 2009
This poem is actually Part One of a narrative poem, but I feel it is a fitting way to begin. A narrative poem is one that contains all the elements of a story, but is written in the style of a poem. The most famous narrative poet of modern times was Dorothy Porter, who died recently - she was the same age as me, and this alone makes me realise the ticking clock is relentless. Dorothy's death has left a gaping hole in the genre, hopefully another poet will come along to fill it soon.
The Choice
The ghost-coloured curtain of crepuscular sky
Is fleeting and uncertain, forcing its right to exist
As the vernal equinox exerts its power, announcing the change;
Winter is on its way
It is required.
The universe has its reason,
But the crimson-lidded bleached grey canopy
-Her father had a name for it – a ‘blood sky’ –
Is garish and out of place at this time of year.
He would laugh, she knows, if he were here now,
Watching this short episode of sky-news
At the start of his topsy-turvy day, anticipating smooth seas
For the usual sail across the strait.
She watches the fishermen reel in their tortured prey
(Assured of a good catch, they love the blood sky),
Searches for a signpost to the future, all the time knowing
The long stretch of sea will provide none.
She has stood here, each moonless night, in this same spot,
(Powerless against the tides and shifting sands)
Watching and waiting till darkness conceals all but the frosted waves,
Intensifying the ocean's secret power
Looking for reasons and finding none
To satisfy her need to know the how and the why –
He was killed by the twilight, betrayed by his best friend, the sea.
The Choice
The ghost-coloured curtain of crepuscular sky
Is fleeting and uncertain, forcing its right to exist
As the vernal equinox exerts its power, announcing the change;
Winter is on its way
It is required.
The universe has its reason,
But the crimson-lidded bleached grey canopy
-Her father had a name for it – a ‘blood sky’ –
Is garish and out of place at this time of year.
He would laugh, she knows, if he were here now,
Watching this short episode of sky-news
At the start of his topsy-turvy day, anticipating smooth seas
For the usual sail across the strait.
She watches the fishermen reel in their tortured prey
(Assured of a good catch, they love the blood sky),
Searches for a signpost to the future, all the time knowing
The long stretch of sea will provide none.
She has stood here, each moonless night, in this same spot,
(Powerless against the tides and shifting sands)
Watching and waiting till darkness conceals all but the frosted waves,
Intensifying the ocean's secret power
Looking for reasons and finding none
To satisfy her need to know the how and the why –
He was killed by the twilight, betrayed by his best friend, the sea.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
May 2009
This month has been rather quiet on the writing front. A few columns for Education Age, a contribution for a column in the Herald-Sun aimed at Baby Boomers heading back to the workplace, having decided for one reason or another that retirement is not all it was cracked up to be. Getting these blogs up and going has been a rather major effort, but satisfying. My four e-books on career management are completed and ready for sale, and I have created my first newsletters for Career Dimensions using a new template. I have also been learning how to make changes to my sites using HTML, so I feel like I am really becoming comfortable with the web at last. I'm dying to see the footage of the DVDs on leadership - I have only written half a dozen scripts and I am still getting my head around all the 'noise' that goes on outside the actual words - it is a really exciting way of writing.
There are just so many writing opportunities that I can't understand anyone saying writing is not a viable occupation. I guess you have to have some skill - there is so much that is less than adequate and I certainly want to be seen as someone who can provide quality materials and to a deadline. But if there are any people out there - young or old - who want to become writers, then don't let the idea that their are no jobs get to you, it is simply untrue!
I was pleased to see my resume information online in Marie Claire magazine, and there was a heavy response from readers. My next e-book on 'How to Write a Resume' should be available by the end of May through http://www.careerwriter.com.au/ and it contains a lot more detailed information to help people trying to beat the competition to jobs - which will become even more important as more people find themselves in the job market.
One thing I have found out about being a writer over the past few years is that neither the role nor the activity is particularly revered. Maybe it is true what they say, that you have to be dead to be respected. I used to think writers had it made, after all they have a certain power, documenting events, concepts, ideas, and being creative. I enjoy writing so I certainly don't mind the lowly status, but I was a bit shocked to find out that as a writer I am hardly given the red carpet treatment. I'll just have to write a film script for a blockbuster.
There are just so many writing opportunities that I can't understand anyone saying writing is not a viable occupation. I guess you have to have some skill - there is so much that is less than adequate and I certainly want to be seen as someone who can provide quality materials and to a deadline. But if there are any people out there - young or old - who want to become writers, then don't let the idea that their are no jobs get to you, it is simply untrue!
I was pleased to see my resume information online in Marie Claire magazine, and there was a heavy response from readers. My next e-book on 'How to Write a Resume' should be available by the end of May through http://www.careerwriter.com.au/ and it contains a lot more detailed information to help people trying to beat the competition to jobs - which will become even more important as more people find themselves in the job market.
One thing I have found out about being a writer over the past few years is that neither the role nor the activity is particularly revered. Maybe it is true what they say, that you have to be dead to be respected. I used to think writers had it made, after all they have a certain power, documenting events, concepts, ideas, and being creative. I enjoy writing so I certainly don't mind the lowly status, but I was a bit shocked to find out that as a writer I am hardly given the red carpet treatment. I'll just have to write a film script for a blockbuster.
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