HooHoooo (or, as they say in French, Hou Hou) – for Gabrielle Bryden and Bénédicte Delachanal

A poem for friends Gabrielle Bryden (sublime poet and lover of owls), who is currently fighting the dreaded winter lurgy,
and
Bénédicte Delachanal (fabulous artist), who crafted these wonderfully funky owl paintings.

 The Comfort of Owls

From tsunami dreams
We bolt upright
And heart and breath
Race to the death
To drown out silence
Of dead hours
And throw us wide-eyed
To the night.

Then, faint, through darkness
Comes strange calm
To tension-wired
Synapse and bone,
The ebb and flow
Of delta waves,
Like a mother’s kiss,
Floats softly down
In owl’s low call,
Primal and deep,
Submersing us
In tides of sleep.

xx

For more things owl, check out Owls on WordPress and YouTube.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Create

Michaela Johanna Gräper at work

Sculpture-in-progress – Michaela Johanna Gräper

We spent the Easter long weekend in Thredbo, and because I couldn’t do my usual frenetic mountain walking due to my feet issues, on the Sunday, us girls left the boys to catch our dinner from the mountain streams and headed into Jindabyne for a bit of laidback arts rambling.

We stopped in at the Wild Brumby Distillery to watch the advertised sculptor-in-residence at work: Michaela Johanna Gräper. Meeting her was rather a lot like observing her create her deliciously voluptuous ladies from these huge wooden logs – at first, we found her extremely reserved and inscrutable like the raw material of her craft, but once she got talking were completely delighted by her utterly wicked sense of humour which is also revealed in her plumpilcious creations – with an impish grin, she confided that most of them are modelled on her on own naked form.

Michaela travels the world on her creative talents – what better life is there?

As for mine, well, they’re non-existent – I once went to a figure-drawing class and came home with this…

Figures? by bb


(PS – And if you’re wondering, Easter Sunday in Thredbo, we ate out for dinner ;-))

See the Daily Post for more entries to the Weekly Photo Challenge: Create

Dilettantes of Disaster

The shadows draw long
through our limbs,
impoverished pulses from
indolent
hearts carve us
tragic sinkhole
s for eyes
; we are sallow
spectres in the night
mirror, painting ourselves
in dishwater tincture
for dream-time, a sludge palette
of effete sorrow.

Until abstraction
manifests from the canvas
and chokes us by the throat,
we do not know gratitude.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Summer

The Surfers’ Code – Manly Beach, Sydney

(The poem below is a re-post)

Suburban Summer

electric light show

rumbling closer,

scented star jasmine

mingling fragrance of rain,

thrum of cicadas

blending languid laughter,

glasses at the hills hoist

toasting vintage summer

—x—

See the Daily Post for more entries to the Weekly Photo Challenge: Summer

The Sydney Writers’ Festival – Take That! And That!


Yesterday, the boss gave me the morning off to go to a poetry workshop at the Sydney Writers’ Festival (she’s good like that ;-)).

It’s the first time I’ve attended a poetry class and, well, it was quite an experience. Run by a well-known Australian poet who’s received several poetry awards, both national and international, it had its good and bad moments.

The prep notes for the workshop suggested that we bring along a poem to share. I chose something brief because I hate reading my poems out loud – some poems are meant to be performed: others are not. And no poems are meant to be performed by me.

So the bad moment came when, against my better judgement, I read Ghosts of Christmas Past aloud, and it continued downhill from there: WKAP remarked, “You have a good poetic sensibility, but…” and then proceeded to kill not only all my darlings but the entire point of the poem with his feedback:

  • antiquated word – don’t use it” (but I chose it specifically for its Biblical flavour)
  • too many syllables in ‘ing’ verbs – needs something shorter”  (but the ‘ing’ verb is meant to evoke the perpetuity of  suffering)
  • “I think you should get rid of ‘fickle’. The sentence is too long – it needs some backburning, haha.” (you’re a riot)
  • clichéd” (ouch)
  • overused” (ooof)
  • If Katy Perry’s done it, don’t do it.” (Ooooh, now that’s a low blow – who are you? Joan Rivers from ‘Poetry Police’?!)
  • Why did you use ‘ashen’? Isn’t that every tree’s fate” (Oh, don’t be stupid!)

And so on…

hmmmpf

I guess he didn’t care for it much. 😀

Of course, the bottom line is that if you don’t want honest feedback from experts, you shouldn’t subject yourself to their scrutiny. But taste in poetry is like taste in food, music, wine and lovers – subjective. And after he was done with his on-the-fly edits to mould my poem into something he thought might work better, it no longer worked for me.

I did, nevertheless, thoroughly enjoy most of the workshop and gained some very valuable insights into poetic structure and form and, particularly, the effective use of line breaks. WKAP is unquestionably a masterful poet and rather good at articulating what a poem is and isn’t, but by the end I felt a little like this:

However, the TKO effect didn’t last for long (us bees are made of stronger stuff ;-)), and the prospect of dinner and a movie (Wish You Were Here) with a good friend, as well as attending  some neuroscience talks at the festival in the coming days lightened my mood somewhat.

Oh, and I’m attending another poetry workshop on Saturday – perhaps I should add a double-shot of Bundy to my early morning coffee. 😉

Don Ritchie – R.I.P.

Don Ritchie, The Angel of The Gap, has passed away

Repost

Angel of The Gap

He looks out at the sparkling sea

and drinks his morning cup of tea

But there’s a shadow to his left,

the darkness of a soul distressed

He knows now he must move with haste

to stop a life from going to waste

“This time, this one, perhaps,” he thinks,

“maybe, I ‘ll pull back from the brink”

The Angel of  The Gap, at dawn,

heads out once more across his lawn

to offer balm, a light to see

a way out from their misery,

to coax them not to end it all

and save them from that fatal fall

http://www.smh.com.au/action/externalEmbeddedPlayer?id=d-1yoat

Never be afraid to speak to those who you feel are in need.

Always remember the power of the simple smile, a helping hand, a listening ear and a kind word.”

Don Ritchie, OAM

Chewing on this

I read this wonderful post of Kate Shrewsday’s
before going to sleep last night and it got me thinking (they always do)
of

Six impossible things before breakfast

A world without the power of money,
a sun-powered world

Journeys across a borderless globe,
Inter-universe journeys

Born old, growing young,
Spinal cords
growing in a window box

——-xx——-

Impossible possibilities? What are your thoughts? 😀

Weekly Photo Challenge: Journey

I’ve used a couple of these snaps on other posts
and the poem is a repost from earlier on this blog
but they all epitomize this week’s theme for me

🙂

Travelling Dog

Travelling Dogs

On the 600km journey –

she looks at flowers and clouds,
he computes mileage per litre,
she ponders the secrets of cows,
he remarks that it might storm later…

She sees the wire-pig mailbox,
he spies a snake on the road,
he surveys flood-plain paddocks,
she wonders if cows talk in code…

He thinks perhaps ‘Box of Frogs’,
she’d prefer peace for a while,
both laugh at the travelling dogs,
their windblown ears and their smiles

Travelling Dog

Travelling Dog

The Song Remains the Same

We were cigar-smoking sylphs,
we were angst-ridden waifs,
not quite role-model material
We were The Clash and The Cure,
Lena-Lovich demure,
but never Nirvana funereal

We were Flashdance and Fame,
we were Grease, Purple Rain,
not Dolly-sweet 9 to 5vers
We were Wham, All That Jazz,
Chorus Line razzmatazz,
Saturday Night Fever survivors

We were pathological humour,
the kohl-girls of rumour,
but never drug-addled chic
We were Dark Side of the Moon
and Kate Bush la lune,
living The Dreaming mystique

We were polka-dot punkers,
Spandau Ballerinas,
not tattooed suicide-grunge,
Twisted Sister crazies,
You were Thelma, I, Louise

But,
in the end,
only you
took that plunge

The Bird


The bird
doesn’t mind

the indifference
of passing feet,
tossed flint-eyed scraps,
nest of a broadsheet

The bird
doesn’t mind
cold-hearted weather,
garbage-can dining,
piss-soaked shelter,
one-eyed sleep in the underpass,
the ubiquitous predator

The bird
doesn’t
 mind
existence
on the streets

He’s just a bird

Weekly Photo Challenge: Self-Portrait

They say

we know
who we are
in adulthood –

sister,
not brother
,
wife,
not mother  –

a prosaic mosaic,
fragments of a self

but don’t ask me
to complete the picture –

time has lost
more than a few pieces

Wild Conspiracies

I wrote this in September for Gabrielle Bryden’s National Poetry Week Challenge.

For more animal-flavoured poetry check out Gabrielle Bryden’s Penguin Week series.

***

I ask scribbly gum moths:
Why this graffiti on trees?
“Mind your own business,
they’re just doodles, if you please”

I ask a plodding snail:
Why the squiggles on the path?
“There ain’t nothing in it –
I just do it for a laugh”

I ask the sly hyena:
Why the tunnels ‘neath the trail?
“Well! Installation art’s
not only for the snail!”

I ask the bower bird:
Why that hoard of shining bling?
“Oh, poppet, it’s no mystery
objets d’art are my thing”

I ask the primping zebra:
What’s with the barcode?
“Poor darling, don’t you know?
Stripes are back in vogue”

But, you know, I don’t believe them –
It’s a vast conspiracy
It’s clear that they are sending
secret messages to me…

***

Weekly Photo Challenge: Wonder

As is
so often the case,

I took
the photograph
first, then
looked.

Saw the water
messaged fresh across his
name,

and I wondered then

if you were there
in the shade of the oaks
watching me

in distaste.