Poem done as group exercise now published

I thought you might like to know that one of the poems I wrote and presented to the group as part of our group exercises last year has now been published online. The poem is entitled 'Bedlam Or Parnassus', and an earlier version of it was posted on this blog. It can now be seen, along with some others, in The Argotist Online, at this web address: http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/Klooger%20poems.htm. The editor's essay on his preferred poetics is interesting too.

Jeff

That's me in Darwin

So you see I had a great tan and a great plate of food too. Now I can try and send a photo to Karen in USA on the blog.
Any new poems before next meeting do please put them on the blog.
June and Geoff's poems were a lovely addition and it makes a diary of somehow how we are going in the poetic journey.

testing testing if I can do new tricks

The blog is being to great use

I love both of the poems. What is special is the experience that you both had prompted such strong emotional responses, of a similiar kind as well. The picture adds the dimension of visual which makes the poems more potent.
Do bring them along to the next meeting so others who are not on the blog can read them. Or if you are inclined email them before the meeting.
I am encouraged to put some poetry again on the blog.
Maybe today I should write about the wind..ugh
Cecilia

These two poems were inspired by a stained glass Nativity Scene in St Matthews Church, New Norfolk, Tasmania - the window is a touching memorial to Nancy Hope Shoebridge, who died at sea in 1887 aged nine, and who appears in the Nativity Scene.

NEW NORFOLK
by June

Softly breezes stir the mist,
lifting it above surrounding mountains.
We, the travellers, sublime in its tranquillity
soak up the peace and history.

As the last rays of light filter in
a darkened church is lightened.
We seek the face
of the little girl buried at sea
those many years ago
now immortalised
in the pure stained glass
of the east window of St Matthews Church.

Softly casting golden colour to the altar,
a haunting face becalmed,
eyes that follow as you move in that sanctuary.
Captured by an artist's brush,
to heal the void you left,
encompassed now in reverence around the manger.

No more the laughter and joy of long ago.
Instead the click – click of camera,
imposing on your solitary refuge.

Often must that little face have been revered
and tears shed -
a gentle reminder.
Now a solace of comfort
for all who grieve.

For us
a treasured memory
to take and hold.

Rest little one.




MEMORIAL
by Geoffrey

A little girl lost.

A grief dissolved,
long ago.

For us you are only a name
on a gleaming window, of a darkened church,
in winter twilight.

And yet

your heart - shaped face,
framed in waves of gold brown hair.
catches at us.


Your eyes follow us,
looking beyond the gesticulating figures,
posed over the pale, haloed baby.

You say:

Love is timeless,
stronger than grief
or myth frozen in glass.

Love placed me here - for you.

Remember me

Poem by William Carlos Williams

I haven't been keeping up with my regular poetry reading (apologies - I forgot! Too busy!). But here is one of my favourite poems, by William Carlos Williams

Philomena Andronico

With the boys busy
at ball
in the worn lot
nearby

She stands in
the short street
reflectively bouncing
the red ball

Slowly
practicied
a little awkwardly
throwing one leg over

(Not as she had done
formerly
screaming and
missing

But slowly
surely) then
pausing throws
the ball

With a full slow
very slow
and easy motion
following through

With a slow
half turn -
as the ball flies
and rolls gently

At the child's feet
waiting -
and yet he misses
it and turns

And runs while she
slowly
regains her former
pose

Then shoves her fingers
up through
her loose short hair
quickly

Draws one stocking
tight and
waiting
tilts

Her hips and
in the warm still
air lets
her arm
Fall

Fall
loosely
(waiting)
at her sides




This is such a simple scene, described simply (and very skillfully), but a whole life is portrayed in it. It is very sensual, too. I wish I knew that woman. She is a mother, but still a woman, and an active being, strong and supple, careless of her appearance, but attractive because of that.

poem by Charles Simic

At the Cookout

The wives of my friends
Have the air
Of having shared a secret.
Their eyes are lowered
But when we ask them
Why
They only glance at each other
And smile,
Which only increases our desire
To know....

Something they did
Long ago,
Heedless of the consequences,
That left
Such a lingering sweetness?

Is that the explanation
For the way
They rest their chins
In the palms of their hands.
Their eyes closed
In the summer heat?

Come tell us,
Or give us a hint.
Trace a word or just a single letter
In the wine
Spilled on the table.

No reply. Both of them
Lovey-dovey
With the waning sunlight
And the evening breeze
On their faces.

The husbands drinking
And saying nothing.
Dazed and mystified as they are
By their wives' power
To give
And take away happiness,
As if their heads
Were crawling with snakes.

I picked this poem for many reasons. Here are a few. Simic has a dramatic way of using punctuation to highlight ordinary accessible language. It slows you in the right places. Also the
simplicity at first read becomes much more at second read. With even for me, anyway, a reference to Medusa with the snakes. The poem paints for me a picture in rich oils hanging framed in some gallery and somehow I have the vision set way back. Well, the theme is as old as the hills....

Now I will also send an email with a poem on it as not all new members are on our blog.

I have reworked three poems and will send as attachments in the email addressed to you all.

Don't forget to type out a poem you like from your reading of a poetry as suggested in the last meeting.

Seems a long time since we met. Look forward to seeing, hearing from you all again next Wednesday.

I have spoken to Karen using the video with Skype. Technology is becoming a standard state of mind around here.

Cecilia

Poor Abadoned Blog

Poor little blog; no one has come to post for so long. I give you a poem to show off to all your other blog friends, so they will know you are loved and valued.

Epiphany by Dorothy Hewett

a day like this
both dark and bright
with cloud
loudness of water
and found words...

the sky no longer
at the top
nor the ground
under my feet
I am lifted up
into a shaft of light
pointed like a sword...

unknown island
neither night
nor day
but furious noise
luminous universe
between the black crags
and the running sea

this was the place.

Sunday 26 April 2009

Hi Karen

So lovely to see your gorgeous self alongside with the cutest swishest,sexy car. Well done. Yes, we could well to follow the idea of the poetry juxtaposing two alongside. Amazing how well it works.

I know haven't been using the blog, but the group have been busy beavers, (American expression, don't think we have beavers). Today was a delight we had a rehearsal for our lit festival performance of 'On the Sandringham Line'. Luke Serano came and played wonderful music on his Saxophone. We were thrilled to have Sandra his mum,somehow engage her delightful son for his time, let alone all the equipment he set up for said performance, and talent for the rehearsal. in May. It is going to be quite some afternoon in May. Music, poetry, wine cheese. Wish you were here.

I will send all Coast Liners an email to have a look at the blog so they can share your poem and see you standing there in vivid sunshine, talking with us online. Shame on us, here is Karen in America using our blog and we are remiss. So let's get blogging.
Since you departed we have some new members. Now have 15 members are have become quite a presence in Bayside. The Leader has given some time to us and the all important Melbourne Weekly has also mentioned our group. In July we will read on radio and will definitely be a presence at the Lit festival this year.

Maybe Tricia will send some photos of today. I took some, but am not yet trained to use flikr. Tricia is going to teach me.

We miss you.

Cecilia

Greetings from the 45th parallel--NORTH

G'day Mates!

I miss our group!!! I haven't been writing much poetry, have been focusing more on creative non-fiction, because I was in a class. Also, I think it's easier! Here's one I did write not too long ago. This was also a result of a workshop. The facilitator suggested we take poems on two subjects that we'd been working on that perhaps we were having trouble with. Then see how you could interweave them to make something new. You might want to try this.

Builder’s Error

It was meant to be intimate--
a cozy deck for a tete a tete,
a resting place for humble, bare feet,
but it juts out prominant as a ship’s prow.

My sister calls, says, It is not a tragedy.
Only five of the lymph nodes hosted cancer cells,
dirty squatters we had hoped would be evicted
with the removal of her breast.

The deck dominates the yard,
flaunts its hubris as if to challenge
the wind.

Flatten yourself against the earth;
try to become unnoticeable.

I wake at 2 filled with anxiety.
It’s not a tragedy. It can be fixed.
It will just take longer and cost
much, much more.


Anyway, my sister is doing well, coming for a visit this weekend with another sister. She's finished w/chemo, has some hair and things look good!

Hope you are all well. Please plass on my thanks to Dave for recent comments on my blog--I don't have his email address. And Tricia and Annetine, it's nice to hear from you! And, Cecilia--we're overdue for a phonecall!

Great to see that most of you are now authors on the blog--but WHERE ARE YOU! No posts since Feb??? Tsk, tsk. I'm sure you are busy writing. :-)

Cheers,

Karen

PS Car is our new toy, a 2007 Pontiac Solstice. Appropriate colour, don't you think?

Jeff and the Connex connection

For some reason having difficulty emailing to you Geoff. But have written to Ali at Bayside and she is thrilled at the idea of you contacting Connex. She probably would be able to talk to them to should you wish a back up as to credibility. After all, we may as well use as much push as we can get.
Cecilia

Congratulations Annetine

Bravo, persistence pays off. And we now can communicate together on the blog.
Geoff's picture comes up really well and am delighted that he has bothered to display it in the blog.
May I encourage you all to continue using the blog.
Tricia will be back at the next meeting.
We will be going on radio later in the year. Should be fun.
Shall keep posting on the blog.
How about if we have a poem for next month we first put it on the blog, which gives others a chance to read it and think about it before the meeting. We seem to run short of time quite a bit.
signing off in 42 degrees and climbing.
Cecilia

a surprising tentative step

at last ... having jumped a huge hurdle .I now wonder what that was all about. !.....will now move ahead....... feels good to be here Thank you Ian and Celia for your patience in getting me through to this point Annetine

A thousand Li of Rivers and Mountains

The picture I wrote about didn't reproduce very well on paper so here it is in JPG format. Click on the image.

Sunset over Bodega Bay

This is beautiful Bodega Bay where the movie The Birds was filmed many years ago. It is not far from Petaluma where we have been staying with Heidi, Ken's former partner who is now like a daughter to us.
We are now on the home stretch. Left Petaluma yesterday for four nights in SanFrancisco then we drive through Big Sur, spend two nights on the cliff tops overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Ragged Point, four nights in Redondo Beach (20 minutes from downtown LA)then home, where hopefully all heatwaves will be over.
Rod has chosen another hotel with a literary theme here in Frisco, The Rex. We dined in the restaurant last night and the bill arrived poking out of the pages of a 1909 book on mathematics. Himself said he had probably studied this very text back in the dark ages when he was a student.
The bar has an old library setting, complete with musty smelling books and deep comfy chairs, with writers desks, complete with old typewriters, along one wall. They even serve literary themed cocktails which I intend to try while I am here. Cecilia the Poets cocktail has midori in it, so appropriate I thought. Was too tired after walking around Sausalito yesterday afternoon to take in the names and all the ingredients but I will do some research and get back to you.
Have not yet put pen to paper regarding train poem but promise to knuckle down when I return home (after completing the dreaded December BAS for Mr Taxman)
Hope you are all managing to keep cool.
Tricia

The poem again

The inauguration poem by Elicabeth Alexander that Geoffreyposted didn't come out quite right (the layout) so I thought I would try again. Here it is:


Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.

We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.

Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.

THAT poem

There's been a flury of critical comment (mostly very critical ) on Elizabeth Alexander's Inauguration poem "Praise Song for the Day"I thought that it might be worth discussing at our next meeting. Here is a transcript:

Praise song for the day.
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."
We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."
We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."
Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.
Elizabeth Alexander

Beautiful Boston

I took this photo from the back porch on Christmas morning.
We are into our last week in Boston. On Monday we leave for a few days in New York then fly to the West Coast to visit friends in Petaluma, California wine country. The snow is still falling every few days, it is beautiful and powdery, but very cold. I had my first snow ball fight with friends the other day, I felt as if I was 10 years old again, it was marvellous.
Saturday night we are going to a play based on a book written by Joan Didion, called The Year of Magical Thinking. I found the book very moving and am looking forward to seeing the play.
Rod and I are finally over all our bugs and flu type ickyness and are really enjoying this special time.
I have not been writing very much of late, too busy playing with my friends. I will have to apply myself when I return home.
Happy New Year to all