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.

Poem of the Month - July 2010

My blogging has seriously slipped - I missed June completely, and here it is almost the end of July and I am still to get the keys into action. Partly, I guess, poetry has taken a bit of a back seat for me lately. taking a month's holiday was obviously both a rest from work and from creativity. Leafing through my little notebook today, though, I found the beginnings of a poem from the last day of the trip. It surprises me that being happy and relaxed is not the best time to write good poetry; it seems there must be an urgency about it for me - which I guess, when I think about it, is not so far from Keats' adage, 'Let poetry come easy, or let it not come at all.'

I am sure we all ask ourselves the question from time to time - when is a poem ready to put on public display? Should it be presented after scrutiny, review, refinement and editing, or should it be as close as possible to it's natural, sponaneous state? Which is the better version?

In an attempt to begin some discussion around this question, I am willing to put myself and my verse on the line. As raw as it is, this is my offering for July.

Listening to Abba via iPod
On the Frankfurt train
It is almost 9.30 and still light.
These are the last pretty villages
With pretty houses
And the necessary church steeples
Surrounded by lush green fields
I will see, this time.

Electric wires tarnish the landscape
And solar-panelled rooves
Remind me that this is
The twenty-first century.
The price we all pay for comfort.

The ICE train is moving at 200 kph
Trucks dawdle along the road
At around half that speed.
Fields of green, pale and dark, gold, and purple here and there
Form rich textured canvasses, neatly woven and decorated

With vegetable baubles and grape-cluster pendants.

Before the light disappears
Like an oasis in the desert,
My eyes desperately devour each pretty postcard
Rectangle of southern German countryside,
To keep me nourished for a while -
Who knows when I will return!

30 June, 2010

Poem of the Month - May 2010

Every poet yearns to be published - yes? Some might argue this point, preferring to think of their poetry as part of  their secret lives, but I think they are lying to themselves and to the world.

Whatever other people think they want, I can state unashamedly that I would be thrilled to see my poetry in print. Of course, I would also like people to buy my poetry book, and some positive words of encouragement about my work would not go astray either.

So the egomaniac in me happened across http://www.lulu.com/ a couple of weeks ago. This is a great site that, amongst other things, guides anyone with a basic understanding of the web to prepare, publish and print their book. They even supply you with a free ISBN if you wish. The only problem I have found so far is getting the time to wade through all the options. Do I want a print version and/or an e-version? If I  want a print version, what size book do I want, and what kind of paper do I want it printed on? How can I get my cover design into a useable form? How will I make sure their are no spelling mistakes or typos? So I want it to be listed on amazon.com and on the lulu pages? Of course, the people behind lulu envisage that customers will run aground sooner or later, and so they offer various add-ons (at a price), which is where they make their money. It is a cunning plan, but also one that I am sure many people would appreciate. I am as yet reluctant to take up any of these extras, but will let you know how I go over the coming months as I move closer to getting myself published.

In the meantime, I have been working in a  range of day jobs over the last month so haven't written any poetry, so I am going  to drag out something from last year, just to maintain the momentum.

Five O’clock Shadow

I’m thinking of words to describe you …
Creepy-pathetic-sleeze-bag

As I walk towards a spare seat not far from the bar
You are there IN MY FACE, but not wanting to talk to me

I am invisible to your male-who-fools-himself-that-he-is-a-stud gaze
You have your target in sight,
You look right through me, as you smile at her.
She is obviously not interested, but she smiles anyway

As women are taught we must.
After a few words she moves past you, totally uninterested
And you creep back to your perch,
Not quite in the corner, not far enough
To hide your too obvious demeaner.

I’m thinking of more words to describe you …
Hunter-prowler-tragic-menace-stalker.
The three women, late forties-fresh-from-a-matinee
(‘Priscilla’, the show not the movie)
Sitting close by, chatting loudly, are oblivious to your leer.

They don’t need you or even know you exist
But that doesn’t stop you fantasising.
You scratch yourself down there
It’s horrible to watch but I can’t help myself
And I’m still thinking of words to describe you …

Pudgy-paunchy-balding-pitiful-Loser
Your clothes are last millennium,
Who wears olive green patchwork leather jackets any more,
Corduroy brown pants,
And a plastic greasy smile without a sense of shame?

How often do you come here?
How often have you stood there in wait?
There you go again, moving forward, target in sight -
Retreat as she doesn’t even take the trouble to smile.
Another approaches with two drinks in hand, sadly not one for you.
I think of some more words that seem to describe you …
Sad-little-loner-man-that-the world ignores
You retreat to an available seat,
It must be hard work, all that ogling.
You don’t know I exist, so I am safe observing you
I can see why you have no one, men like you are so shallow.

My love approaches, drink for me in hand,
Smiles and kisses for me; wondering what is capturing my attention.
I don’t disclose, but I tell him it is nice to be wanted
Smugness coloured by a tinge of sadness.

And I look at you once more, and think of new words to describe you
Human-frailty-needing-friendship-more-than-sex
But you don’t know how to make that happen,
Men are trained to prey, not to ask for what they need
And desperate acts result.

A part of me wants to come back tomorrow,
To check if this is a regular thing
But I know I won’t, I don’t really feel proud of myself
Or my too-easily developed opinion. In any case,
I’ll have moved on once I have finished writing this poem,
I doubt that your tawdry life will provide any further fascination for me

And I’ve run out of words to describe you …

January 2008

Poem of the Month - April 2010

Physical pain is troublesome in more ways than one. I recently sustained a relatively minor in-the-scheme-of-things injury and thought that I would be able to overcome any resultant issues with a positive attitude. I am sure my fighting spirit has helped me to slowly conquer my aches and pains while managing to struggle on with my ever-expanding workload that refuses to slow down just because I have. But I have certainly not risen above the pain to keep going no matter what, I have, in fact, been made to accept that sometimes life just has to go on around me. I have to watch work piling up, the house getting dirtier, running late for appointments, or not making them at all. It has been a blow to my self-opinion that is for sure.

So I thought it might be appropriate to write a poem about the last few weeks, and especially on April Fools' Day, when the joke is on me:

Pain and its Shadows

In that moment when I trip, tumble, bump into furniture
Time stands still.
Muscles tear, skin is pierced, a primal scream surges inside me
While I am still going down, crash, down, crash
Until I get to the inevitable end of this unwanted detour
That threatens the equilibrium
Of my seriously time-limited life.

My husband, daughter come from their Sunday night perches
To see what is wrong.
'Are you all right Darling'. No, I'm bloody not!
'That's going to be a nasty bruise Mum'. Oh, you think?
Resisting the urge to add further sarcasm to muddy any hint of sympathy
I smile as best I can and thank them for coming to my aid.

Weeks later, I have lived through
A chaotic sequence of pain-led recovery.
One step forward, two back.
Sleepless nights have become shorter periods of wakefulness,
Trying to find a comfortable spot in bed.
Wheat packs, pawpaw ointment, Panadol Rapid have become my friends,
When will I climb stairs again without the geriatric lurches
That have become my signature style?

Trips in the car, I feel every bump in the road
In every movement I discovered new muscles that,
Rather than being joyful at the call to order, choose to join in on the pain circuit;
'You want to use us, NOW! There'll be a price!'

More sleepless nights, sheer agony.
I can't go on like this - pain, when will you go away,
When will I feel normal again?
When will I be able to take for granted getting up from the couch,
Picking up a bit of paper that has fallen on the floor,
Running to catch the tram?

Pain has no colour, it is shades of grey.
Its thud has no music, its is simply here to remind me
That I am human, flawed, imperfect.
But its message is also
That life will be better, giving me hope
That I will once again take life for granted,
And all will be well with the world.

Julie, April 1, 2010

Poem of the Month - March 2010

This month I want to present a poem that merges my two passions - careers and writing. I was motivated to write a poem about change, as I have been recently taking myself through a self-directed change and found myself wondering why change is so hard even when we are driving it. People who are about to be married usually go through a period of wondering if this is the right thing, of recalling the single life nostalgically - many people even change their minds several times, calling off the engagement and then going through the whole 'Will you marry me' thing again for the second or even third time.

Change is difficult and draining: there is always a mourning period during which we wonder why  we  want to leave our old, known way of  life behind,  then there are the doubts - is  this the right path to follow, and confusion - well if I am making a change, then why not consider a range of  other possible options.

This poem was written in about five minutes, so I doubt it is my best, but it is not up to me  to judge.

On change and uncertainty


Giving up the known is easy
In practice.
You simply say, I’ve had enough,
Close the door and go on your way.

But it isn’t really, is it?
We fumble  and procrastinate
We make excuses
Avoid the inevitable.

We question ourselves and our motives
We talk ourselves out of
Whatever it is we want to do
And we stop listening to the voice of change.

Crisis point, the time of not able to go back,
Afraid to go on
We take ourselves so seriously
And lose ourselves.

If change is forced on us, or even if not,
It will creep up, stealthily, unnoticeably -
The light is going out
In our old familiar room

We make excuses:
'It’s nice in the dark'
Or, 'It's not really dark'
Or, 'It is only a little bit dark'.

But darkness is complete.
We can live in it, or we can leave the room
And move to a nicer, brighter one
With no old furniture to bump into.

After we get used to this room and the view
We can work out what we want to go and get
From the old room, light a candle and go back there
And realise that, all too soon, it is no longer familiar.

Whatever is important to our new life
 - people, things, beliefs,
Can be gathered up and polished,
made meaningful in new ways.

As for the rest,
Go back,
Shut the door,
Turn the lock,
And walk away.

Poem of the Month - February 2010

After writing my last post requesting bad poems, I am naturally a little nervous  about posting my own poetry in case it should, like a rabid dog, come back to bite me. But poems have to be fearless if they are to be anything at all, so I will proceed.

Keats said 'Let a poem come easily, or let it not come at all'. Ishmael Reed said 'Writing poetry is the hard manual labor of the imagination' So what is it - easy or hard?  Sometimes I find it easy - words fly from my imagination onto the keyboard and lines, whole stanzas appearing before me before I have brought them to consciousness. These poems usually speak to me and tell me something I didn't know before, and I usually like them. Sure, I might tweak them a bit to make them more elegant, but these are the robes of decency that surround and make more palatable the intense child of my inner workings.

At other times, I sit with an idea for a long time, it doesn't want to take shape, I will it into being. I might even do some research, as in the poem of the month for February. These poems may be more skilled and 'clever', I am proud of them but I find it more difficult to think of them as truly mine, rather I am a conduit for a wider conscience.

So here is one after the words of Reed, rather than Keats - one that was researched, brought about by the will to be seen as a serious poet rather than a natural one. I am surprised that I wrote it nearly seven years ago.

Branded Ethics

White-coated laboratory men,
determined not to be fobbed off
by human complexity,
or the female domain
labour to reproduce.

Fathers of parthenogenesis
herald the new virgin birth,
learning, from the lower species,
the art of immaculate conception.
No longer a passing fad;
now it’s master-minded.

A head of plucked baby teeth
produce a trillion identical twins.
Deaf, mute, blind, short-lived
but, it’s a beginning.

Even answering the Big Questions
is within the reach of the men from Stemron.
They have endowed their babies with souls.
Elohim’s disciples claim their baby clones
are proof of life in the somewhere else.

In Milan, multiple sclerotic mice show promise,
And the future’s bright for gay couples.
Soon we will know if Elvis lives,
The future for the Tassie tiger,
Who will own the first army of elite warriors,
Where the first Clone Olympics will be held
and if we really did descend from aliens.

May 2003

The world's worst poetry

I wonder what Keats et.al. would have done if it were possible to blog in the early nineteenth century. One thing I am pretty sure of, we would have had a whole lot more bad poetry to wade through to get to the gold. It is just so easy for anyone to enter whatever garbage pops into his or her head at any given moment.

This one was sent to me a while back, I don't know its origin, but it made me wonder if there was a website somewhere dedicated to bad poetry:

I had a puppy once - it died the next day
It made me feel a peculiar way

I had a puppy once, so happy and free
I saw it and  it followed me

My puppy was beautiful, I really loved him
So good and kind

Nothing good can exist, good just doesn't fit
The universe's law, I strangled it.

Given that judges around the world constantly debate as to what is good poetry, I wonder how we can so easily determine what is bad poetry. Obviously poetry doesn't have to rhyme or follow any of the conventional standards, otherwise many poems would not have been awarded prizes.

So apart from being thoughtless, is it simply that bad poetry that makes you feel bad, or feel nothing at all - soul-less? I think poetry does have to have a soul, a universal conscience of sorts. It also has to have a certain cleverness about it, or as my mum was wont to say, 'a good way with words'. My mum loved hymns, and her definition of a good one was the power of its words. She didn't much mind what the words were describing, or what the message was, as long as the message was strong. I remember feeling a kind of anger for days when she used the words 'how lovely' to describe the young Nazi's song from Cabaret - 'Tomorrow belongs to me', an emotion I could night quite place. I now identify this as a lack of universal conscience - truly, the music is very powerful and the words engaging, which given its pastoral setting and smiling faces makes it all the more grotesque.

I am sure 'Onward Christian Soldiers' and 'Auld Lang Syne' can likewise be viewed as grotesque by some, so obviously all poetry is subjective to an extent. So who are the arbiters of taste when it comes to deciding what is good and what is not? If anybody knows, please tell me.  I know that my poetry has never been met with any standing ovations, perhaps this means I am a bad poet, or that I am not driven sufficiently by my conscience. I do believe I am clever with words, but comparing myself to others, perhaps not quite clever enough.

Anyway, as good poetry is apparently so hard to agree on, let's build up a repository of bad poetry and see if we can't use these to decide which elements we want to avoid. Post your findings here and continue this conversation, in the interests of preserving what is good.

Poem of the Month - January 2010

New Year passed quietly for us - me, David and the cat - down at the beachhouse. Call it getting old, being boring, friendless - whatever takes your fancy, but for me it was a time to quietly and contemplatively reflect on the past and give some thought to the future, which becomes even more critical in your fifty-fifth year of life.

I started writing a poem early on in the evening, and created new stanzas each hour until 9 o'clock when an electrical storm caused a power-out. I took all this in my stride, after all I love a thunderstorm. I supposed I could have continued in the old-fashioned way,  writing in a notebook by candlelight,but I didn't, and that's OK.

I don't suppose the poem was very good. Rarely (unless you are someone like John Keats) is a first draft poem worth hanging on to, but I do recall a line in which I expressed the view that people who host New Year's Eve parties are really only interested in one thing - inflicting their own weird and often pathetic taste in music, usually while becoming increasingly intoxicated, on their guests (who, no doubt silently make New Years resolutions that revolve around revenge the following year, and which, no doubt, involves an entire box set of Abba albums, or their own fantastic CD compilation of sixties television themes).

So I won't inflict my very bad New Year's poem on you, however as this month is all about new beginnings and casting out the old habits, thoughts and ideas, I have dug out this one from my treasure trove.

Letting Go

You lie there, amongst the ruins of last night
In what passes vaguely for a bedroom,
Surrounded by the wreckage of teen-age
Assorted personal items strewn everywhere -
Has there been a tsunami here?

Far too many pieces of clothing to all be yours,
Waiting, uselessly, for owners to return and claim,
So justifiably can never be thrown away.
A quick scan shows several that should be here
Are missing, maybe never to return.

And you lie there, like the dead,
As if it doesn’t matter in the least that you are late
Again.
How did two such reliable people give life to
Someone with no time management skills?

But you look so peaceful with your half-stubble chin
And the traces of hot-pink lipstick on your cheek
From one of your many ‘girl-friends’ with a name like Sunrise, Tayla or Bi-arncha who
Is always so-o-o thrilled to meet me.

You could live in here for about a year
If cold pizza was something you actually ate
And warm half-bottles of Pepsi were considered drinkable
These shrines to the good life,
Victims of a teenager’s paradoxical existence,
Are never consumed, but throwing them away
Is obviously fraught with too much separation anxiety.

Or, perhaps it is the aroma that emanates -
Judging from the amount of traffic
That enters and leaves the room between sunset and sunrise,
This obviously drives the girls wild.

Still you lie there, oblivious to the world,
Like you hold the monopoly on sleeping rights,
(I’d like to be eighteen again – sigh - maybe).
I am envious and troubled at the same time,
This turning night into day can’t be healthy.
I hear the sound of your mobile,
Muffled under layers of blankets
It’s too early for it to be one of your mates.
It will be your boss, wondering where you are.
Should I answer it? What would I say?

I decide against going in there and disturbing what is probably
An advanced form of filing system
Why else would all those CDs and DVDs and X-Box games
That cost us so much -
(Not that you understand the concept of money,
I hear my own mother’s taunt rebirth inside my mind, and wince),
Be suspended on the edge of the bed
Devoid of plastic protection,
They are probably all placed exactly so that
You can find them without even looking.

I consider waking you, and while I am still
Deciding whether it is time you took responsibility
For your life, or whether I can stop being a Mum just yet
One eye opens, then another, and you raise your head a little.
“Hey”, you mouth huskily, “wassup?”

“I-isn’t it time you went to work?” I stumble,
Trying not to sound too overbearing.
“They changed my shift, I’m on late today.”
You yawn and turn over noiselessly,
The back of your head tells me the conversation is over
I am not wanted or needed, redundant and inconsequential
But I’m not ready to leave, not yet -
So you lie there, snoring softly, while I just stand here,
Watching.