super-late mega update

Here are the poems I submitted for my final folio in my Writing Poetry subject. There's a sonnet in there, so watch carefully! Some fiction, some faction, some familiar, some totally fresh. Enjoy!

imitation

Having never been aware

of the advent of wikipedia.org

I failed to prepare a suitable section for 'personal life',

being far too focussed on ruthless and bloodthirsty dictatorship.

The whimsical facts apparently so necessary for modern audiences eluded me, and all I can supply instead are the numbers of lives I took, while defending the voice of freedom.

Apparently though, I look good in a wig,

but everybody wore them,

so I'm not quite sure why that's surprising news.

In your time if a man wears a wig,

he's singled out for public blandishment,

as though it is right to demand a full head of hair til death do you part upon the altar of age.

But no! It is not right! I demand a fair trial!

A people's court!

The swish and spring of the guillotine!

Ah, Madame Guillotine, I always dressed for you in the finest of white stockings,

applauded your efforts to shave the unruly beard off the national escutcheon.

I also quite enjoy having a huge, weapon,

rising up above the crowd,

statuesque symbol of...

symbol of...

My advice to all future dictators is simple,

and garnered from my experience and that of my friends.

Don't allow young women to meet with you in your medicinal bath.

Don't shoot yourself in the jaw (it hurts).

Don't encourage the people into too many rash and swift executions, yours will be next.

Do however make as full use as possible of such words as 'committee', 'public' and 'safety', and I can recommend a little brandy in the morning

to get in you in the mood for

signing endless documents

and meeting with smelly men.

Spurned, or, Human Error

He was a barb:

a fragment of glass, swallowed accidentally.

He scraped first at her lips,

(her words caught)

next, her throat

(shredded, twisted into knots).

But it was the long, slow descent,

through metres and metres that nearly killed her:

internal bleeding the least of the worries

as they lay together,

(her heart screaming)

him sleeping, her distressed.

     Never had a minds meeting,

     never nothing but a near miss.

Childhood

When you were leaving,

and picking up your keys from the console table,

and rifling through your bag,

and going on about whether you’d need a taxi for this evening,

I wondered if I should tell you that

in my dreams last night

I floated on a magic carpet

in a scene not dissimilar the sequence in Aladdin

that we used to watch together

while mum cleaned the kitchen

and let us eat popcorn

and sang along loudly when we turned the music up.

I didn’t want to listen to the details of your day,

but remember the feeling

of flying without falling,

that even though,

usually,

sitting on a carpet is not exactly comfortable

for long periods of time,

in transit, this one felt

like a soft cushion of air,

plush fibres

and a large dose of subconscious recognition

that I was still lying on my own bed,

cradled by the extra, sheepskin layer I put on it in the winter,

and we used to speak of such things

when I was less anxious

and you were less busy

and we generally chatted

between our bunks 

after lights out in the evenings,

so pointless in daylight saving,

as the glow through the plastic venetians

continued to reveal the

shapes and textures of the room. 

In earnest voices we'd discuss

almost any thought that crossed our minds,

the way we felt when tuna-bake was served again

on silent Sundays, 

a gastronomic ritual we both disliked. 

We'd speak about the books we'd read

and I'd advise,

from my obvious maturity

the best way to deal with grandparents.

Are we grown-ups now, 

is that the problem?

The reason I can no longer speak

of frivolous dreams

and vague impressions?

Do suits impose a verbal prison from which

no ordinary words can be spoken,

only business mish mash and 

public speech?

You said, “goodbye, I'll see ya later”

closing the door before my reply. 

“My magic carpet's better than yours,

and I don't give a stuff about your boyfriend”

to the empty room,

the blank door, 

the missing voices. 

word to Derrida

You are a black hole,

whose centre is a vacuum. 

I am a solar system, 

whose centre is a sun.

for Paris

Not cold in her grave she lies,

but hot.

Baked back to clay by unforgiving sun.

Three days have passed,

but life's light does not sink down,

piercing thick layers of soil to touch her.

Life's light has not reached

her stiffening, suffocated body at all.

Her silent lips are mimicked now

by silent stares above.

She speaks not death's dark secrets,

while blind teachers disclose empty truths.

Platitudes.

Milk stuff,

to minds starved of meat,

so needed for their journey ahead.

Paris died.

Small child.

And every womb cried out,

empty arms groped for their beloved.

No no no no no no no.

Don't worry yourselves about it,

it didn't happen,

but it did,

so we should shut up now

and eat some chocolate.

Hallmark words will not revive her,

no kiss of life can now resuscitate.

But yet,

your voice may find her,

through soil and darkness penetrate.

Unafraid of death's dark shadow,

powerful truth, now spoken as command.

Resurrect!

And light will blind her,

breath shall find her lungs again.

sunset

Soon your hands will wither.

Those veins you can barely see now

will strike new wrinkles in your skin,

rise up over softened crevices.

Your neck will slouch,

descend to meet the breasts that

also have descended

down down down

to meet the bottomless belly

draped over wasting thighs.

Soon, soon, as time reveals, exposes,

your body will fold in, replace,

become unrecognisable.

This skin contorts, transforms,

is plastic

in the image of its maker.

A constant reminder

of your fragility, changeability, liminality,

the fine, filmy substance of your physical existence

in this epoch.

You should EMBRACE

this final, flaming, sunset spark,

the glory unparalleled of being allowed

to dance and shine before your maker.

And then, look forward

to dawning again,

upon a world remade,

fresh light,

new skin,

new blood.

wounded

bruised
battered
beaten
worn

Can I get a sling for my whole body?

A bandage for my soul?

When you poke me, it hurts,
whether in jest or no.

When you slap me, it stings,
old wounds re-open.

I can't cope with much more at the moment,
please soothe my sores,
bind up my broken heart
and re-make me whole. 

abnormal

So it turns out it's not normal,
this feeling that my eyes are always three hours more tired
than the rest of my body.

The optician asks,
"have you noticed anything abnormal recently?"
I say, "what's normal?"

She smiles quizzically,
thrusts the machine in front of my eyes,
makes a few adjustments and says,
"not your sight".

So, now I need to wear glasses.


So it turns out it's not normal,
this feeling that my body is just a body,
with good bits and bad bits,
bits that I quite like,
bits I think other people like.

The photographer grimaces in concentration,
stands back with his head cocked to the side,
then tucks me in behind dresses, bridesmaids and the flower girl,
my concealment now bringing the photo back to balance.

So, now I feel like the photogenic failure, and just want to hide.


So it turns out it's not normal,
this feeling that every day is a melancholy farce,
another opportunity to feel disconnected, depressed and alone.

The friends smile in happiness to see me,
warm hugs, loving eyes,
offers of support and an understanding attitude.

So, now I have to remember that I cannot measure normal.

surprise me

The Comedian stood,
bold, sardonic, creative, generous, thoughtful and wise.

a howl from the rooftops,

a quiet question, echoing into the night.

"Who is the lucky one?"
The quick or the dead?

The ones who've exited this plastic fantastic,
super-charged and
super-disappointing earthly existence?

Or the ones left behind.

Like us.

Scattering our wonderings to the wind.

Answer back some time won't you?

Trump logic.
Please?!!

Give an irrational but truthful reason to continue!
Bless us with an unjustifiable, unreasonable basis for drawing in breath.

Beat my brain down from it's arrogant, desperate, frightened, weary, wounded sanity,
and let me live,
not in ignorant bliss,
but astounded enlightenment. 

have I not loved

I've flown there and back in one exhausting day
to weep, forlorn at a graveside.

I've waked and waited through watches of the night
willing sickness to turn.

I've prayed desperately and faithfully,
daily and yearly
that hearts will turn and be made flesh.

I've gasped in ecstatic joy,
cried in wrenching sadness,
laughed with humble mirth.

I've smiled at stories because I know someone I love will love them,
stored them up in memory to share,
to brighten or stimulate an Other's day.

Gathered tidbits to share,
made favourite dishes,
slaved in the preparation of special gifts.

I've waited patiently,
defended jealously,
watched enviously,
thirsted endlessly,

have I not loved?!!

Just because I haven't rolled roughly on rumpled sheets,
or promised fealty in public celebration.

Just because you see no biological evidence
and cannot see into the deeps of my heart.

Though I have not felt the pleasure of it,
I know what delight there must be,
in walking arm in arm,
in warm sun,
on fair path.

Though I have not tasted the pleasure of a kiss,
my minds mouth can conjure it,
and sup the bitterness of its ending.

I have loved.
I do love.
I will love.

You may never see it,
celebrate it,
give me gifts.

You may never organise a party
simply to congratulate me on it's length.

You may never note or mark it at all,

but have I not loved?

Hebrews 10

Standing not in shadow,
but a vision now.
Still ephemeral,
but light.

What help is that?
To know more but feel nothing?
To stand either side, in the darkness or The Day
but not the middle moment,
the vital strike
of heavenly lightning to shattered earth?

Hope still as fragile,
life still a rehearsal,
the dumb imitation of actions not yet seen, but described.

Press on.

Press on weary soldier,
toward oasis promised.
Haze on the horizon,
not even the scent in the air.

But,

one day soon -
keep stepping,
you can wash,
and drink,
and rest. 

bloody love

Multitasking like a manic monkey in the attempt to prove I'm not a total failure.

Procrastinating wildly in the best style of self-sabotage.

Guilt guilt guilty that my failures drag others down with me.

Help me off this treadmill of woe,
my Sisyphian attempt to win salvation (freedom from painful shame) by works (hopeful/hopeless stabs at success).

Lift up my eyes,
from my navel
to your skies.
Help me truly perceive and believe your measureless graciousness,
staunch affection,
bloody love.

in the air

In the air

where wild birds soar,
free-wheeling, released,
conquering city smog.

In the air

above this mild, mean, melee
of trampled faces,
broken dreams.

In the air

where cleansing light meets gentle breeze,
no towers, walls, defences
to block brightness, darken, squeeze.

In the air

we'll meet Him.


In the air,

we'll greet Him.


We'll finally be free,
in the air. 

Jesus Christ, Superstar!

The 16 year old in me is v. relieved
you had compassion on
the guy who lived among graves and cut himself.

The woman in me is glad
you had compassion on
the sister whose leakage told a tale of woe
to anyone with a nose.

The sick person in me is desperately excited
that rumours are flying of a powerful healer,
so I'm ready to shed my dignity and run.

Everything they've told me about you so far gives me hope,
that here at last,
is a promise keeper. 

Bethesda

I was stranded by the pool.
As usual.
Too nervous to de-towel and hop in,
afraid of my bare legs and arms.

Other bodies,
already splashing, racing, enjoying themselves
were suntanned,
svelte,
care free.

I wanted to find a corner where nobody was watching
and slip quickly and quietly into the water
where distorted wavelets could cover my horrid flesh.

There!
Right there,
in that shady corner.
No one would see me there.

I slid in and bobbed around
mildly enjoying my anaemic delight.

But the water held no healing powers.
And when I hauled myself up the ladder,
I was just the same as before.

I didn't want anyone to watch me.
I didn't want anybody to see me at all.

My mind was on one object,
and one object only.

Hope.

The hope that one day this would all change,
that I would move freely and easily through the world,
make friends,
have a name.

And when you came by,
I didn't realise at first what you were really offering,
I didn't know the solution you provided was what I needed most of all.
We were disconnected,
remote from one another.
I hiding in transparent water,
you standing strong,
speaking soft,
thinking bold.

I missed it.

I missed all those chances.

But you kept coming,
kept being,
kept knowing
that eventually I would understand.

"There is something worse than being sick.
There is something better than being well."*


*this is a quote from a sermon on John 5 by Simon Manchester. 

these three

These three will remain,
Faith, Hope and Love,
and the most terrifying of these is love.

Faith is not scary,
but logical in the extreme.
It is only by faith that breath can be taken in.

Hope does not induce fear,
it is strong and bold,
even in small measure it is robust, though it feels fleeting,
it can only lead to life.

But Love, ah Love.
Love alone can terrify.
Without Faith and Hope by it's side,
love strangles life in the night.
To love as strong as death
without hope of consummation
is to kill your soul with unceasing sorrow.
To love in jealousy as unyielding as the grave,
but to have not faith
is to chew away at the fibres of your own being.

So love in faith, with hope,
or do not love at all.

Unless...
Love bold!
Risk pain!
Take on the terrifying adventure.
Let love life disappoint, destroy, damage,
but snatch at joy from the jaws of death,
seek out faithful, hoping love,
and thereby find your all.

pharisees

You know that bit,
where you were walking on your way to Jerusalem,
and you'd been there heaps of times before,
but never to die.

And the Pharisees kept dogging your steps,
and snorting in disgust when you met with sinners,
ate with tax collectors,
chatted with prostitutes.

And you know how you told them those stories
about the lost sheep,
and the lost coin,
and the lost son.

Were there many Pharisees in the crowd that day,
Pharisees like me,
who have their lines drawn between their version of right,
and their version of wrong.
Who thought they heard your voice,
but weren't listening properly.
Who thought they could impress you,
desperately wanted to,
but couldn't.

Were there any
or many
of those guys
who,
when you told the story about the lost sheep,
and the one about the lost coin,
and especially the one about the lost son.
Were there any who knew that you were trying to get them to understand
that they were being like the grumpy older brother,
and that instead of recognising grace,
they were multiplying sin.
Did any of them get so distracted by the startlingly wonderful,
appallingly miraculous,
blessedly beautiful idea
that you might run after them
and welcome them back,
that they forgot to listen to that bit
about the brother,
and went away wondering,
"maybe I can come be welcomed home too?"

Were there?

a better Christian than me

I suppose if I was super holy, I'd be praying to thank you for salvation...
I'd be quoting the Psalms, and rejoicing that you're my rock and my horn forever...

But the truth... The awful truth is...

The thing I'm most excited about right now is...

MY SEWING TABLE!!!

What a great joy, to have a friend take me in, give me a room, let me share her space, but more than that, let me have MY VERY OWN SEWING TABLE!!

My new machine sits proudly under its dust cover. It can stay exactly where it is! It doesn't need to be moved! My fabric stash is accommodated happily in the ample room underneath, all my jewellery fixings and beads have space on top. There's even room for my small store of craft books! What rapture!

And the DRAWERS! The drawers! They're so incredibly awesome! So many little dividers, perfectly shaped boxes for bobbins, elastic, scissors, pins, bias binding, fabric pencils, measuring tapes, iron ons and all to live in separate, organised glory.

This sewing table is so much more than I could have ever deserved or dreamed. IT'S INCREDIBLE!

And yes, at the moment, I'm a little more excited about it than most other things...

But I guess that's kind of what salvation was all about anyways...

I mean, obviously, there's your eternal glory, 'cause, you are such a gracious, generous, faithful, creative, powerful, loving Master of the Universe, and all of that is displayed perfectly and supremely in your gift of salvation.

But, it's the bit that comes after. The reason you embarked on that crazy, make-or-break plan in the first place.

Life.

You wanted us to go on living, with you, with each other, with your beautiful world, forever.

And I'm sure there'll be sewing tables! And gardens, buildings, engineers, cooks, musicians and all. We'll continue working for you and for one another, to clothe, feed, edify and sustain. So, thank you for the sewing table, and its reminder of the joys yet to come.

the baby

I understood it all the moment I saw her,
looking like the Evil Emperor from Star Wars,
warily blinking at the world.

The sudden punch to the belly,
a power hit of joy, awe
and fierce fighting fire.

My first thought, "she's beautiful"
very closely followed by my second,
"if anyone hurts her, I'll kill them!"

Woah!

She's not even my child,
she's just my niece,
but she was small, squishy and defenceless.

And something more...

She was a child, a baby.
Not just a symbol,
but the very essence of all that is important
and precious
and vulnerable in this world.

How could you let Him come like that?

The joy of seeing Him born, crushingly overshadowed
by the shit and blood and stench of His death.

I feel sick
and then
wonder-full.

toothache

I shouldn't be surprised that toothache reveals the barely-hidden evil in me.

How many of us, your 'greatest' creation, fall at the slightest twinge in the gums?

But we do. 

We fall and fall and fall, 

for soft flesh, 

greener grass, 

nicer houses,

and the removal of any discomfort.

My impotent rage at my pain rises and crashes against the facade of my civility.

I begin to wonder about Hitler's dental care. Did Mussolini have stomach ulcers? Did Pol Pot have a problem with his knee?

My energy is spread too thinly between the pain and the polite. I can't be a Christian and have toothache!

How would I cope with martyrdom?!

Fortunately I haven't reached the nuclear-brinkmanship/trade-off part of this prayer yet, where I start promising good behaviour in exchange for pain relief. I hope I'm never mad enough or scared enough to do that. I'm relieved when I do occasionally grasp the truth that you are not the Trunchbull or a disgruntled Grandmother who bribes children with sweets (especially unhelpful in my state!). I'm glad that you're not just some giant mathematician in the sky, weighing good against bad and compensating accordingly. You're much more lavish than that, and I thank you for it!

Having said that, I've also not reached the nuclear brink of visiting the dentist! Unfortunately, dental is not on Medicare...

Instead, I shall summon every remaining shred of self-control to say, 'thy kingdom come, thy will be done' and hope as strongly as possible that your kingdom includes free national healthcare and your will is for everyone's wisdom teeth to grow peacefully!

Amen!

(Alright, I'm willing to grant your divine will might include a few other things, but seriously, I'm putting in a vote for pain free teething in the new creation!!)

stars

As we drove from Orange to Molong, the sun finally set.

Dusk didn't fall, but rather folded itself around the gentle slopes and sinuous valleys of the central tablelands.

Every scent heightened as the wind dropped, in solemn acknowledgement of the on-coming night.

The sweet, warm smell of cattle began to seep through into the car, mingled with the more herbaceous aroma of roadside daisies, crops and weeds. Somewhere near the top of this rich, comforting, home-like bouquet was the woolly smell of lanolin as a scattering of sheep lay them down to rest.

The lights of the city had long faded, and at last, familiar stars began to replace them. At my right side as I drove, a nameless constellation pricked out its place in the blanket of the night, and I recalled its presence at the bedroom windows of my past, a fixed point of reflection as I fell asleep. That rocket-like shape had peered at me from afar for so many years, but recently, I had lost sight of it, as it was replaced for a decade by kilometres and kilometres of suburbs, sparkling into distance, meeting the shining centrepoints of the city.

To think I had worried I would not find new places to go and sit and be!

How strange that I had looked ahead with regret to the loss of my quiet bay in the harbour, not for its rough beauty alone, but because I feared it could never be replaced with any other equal prospects to calm the soul and soothe the mind.

So many anxieties have crowded in these past few weeks, at the very least stalking me on the dream-trails if not in waking life. To be torn apart by my own hand from my quiet bay was bad enough, but to also be separated from friends old and new, the comfort of their presence assuring me of their love, this rift has opened up an ocean of inner agony.

But you will comfort and walk with me. You are always with me. Your rod and your staff. You will graciously provide everything, as you already have. You know my needs, you love me, and you desire good things for me.

You put those stars there loooooooooong ago, and they will guide me in the darkest night.

I just needed to see them again, and be reminded.

resurrection storm

I offer to you my words of meditation on your greatness, my thankfulness for your rescue from the eye of the storm.

                                                                   




New washed, the earth lies silent.
New born, she shines,
still glistening from the womb.

Raw dawn spreads lambent stillness,
waking world waits life,
stirring from the tomb.

                                                                   


Your words.
Psalm 107:25-30 New International Version (with small changes for rhythm)

For He spoke and stirred up a tempest,
that lifted high the waves.
They mounted up to the heavens
and sank back down to the depths.
In their peril, their courage melted away.

The reeled and staggered like drunkards,
they were at their wits' end.
Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble,
and He brought them out of their distress.

He stilled the storm with a whisper,
the waves of the sea were hushed.
They were glad when the storm grew calm,
and He guided them to their desired haven.

Do Not Be Afraid *bullshit cough*

"Do not be afraid" the angel said. 

Then handed Mary an AK47, 

a pack of bullets

and a steak for the dogs. 

"Do not be afraid" the angel said. 

Then beat Zechariah unconscious, 

and mute. 

So he didn't have to endure

9 months of pregnancy, 

30-odd years of parenting,

and the hideous conclusion

of his son's bloody death. 

"Do not be afraid" the angel said. 

Then gave Sarah an open womb, 

a good laugh, 

and the right to rape a slave girl. 

"Do not be afraid" the angel said. 

Then pulled Gideon out of his hole, 

gave him a pep talk

and let him loose

with a band of thirsty murderers. 

"Do not be afraid" the angel says. 

And the strangest consequences always follow. 

"Do not be afraid,

for I am with you says the Lord". 

Well you would know, 

this was all your idea in the first place. 

Do not be afraid, 

because like following orders

when you're a Private,

with a particularly thick-necked, vocal Sergeant, 

there is an incentive. 

But it's more than just 

a desire to avoid

a punishment 

created to make best use of

old toothbrushes

and polished concrete floors. 

It's a chance, 

an invitation. 

To be part of something better, 

bigger, weirder, scarier, more exciting and confusing

than anything we could devise,

if you gave us a million keyboards and a million monkeys. 

We've stepped into the mad-house with you. 

On a mad-cap mission

to a mad-dening world.

So we will be afraid. 

Which is why you have to keep repeating yourself. 

Please do. 

Amen. 

Bless the wind

Why have I so often interpreted
frustration, disquiet and anger,
as lack of confidence,
disappointment,
disgust?

When a bird pushes
her fine, frail fledgling,
hopefully,
expectantly,
anxiously,
from the patiently feathered nest,
she would feel I presume,
even if just in a
"pure evolutionary sense",
just at the
"biological instinct" level,
a terror and reluctance
at the sheer impossibility of her task.

The child she has nurtured,
cosseted,
fed with her own vomit,
now has to be kicked out
into the wide, wild world.
To test her strength against
fell winds,
rabid dogs,
and that heartless bitch, gravity.

She doubts not her flesh and blood,
but the universe she will descend into.
Rapidly, painfully,
expecting doubt, trial and despair,
and only the survival of the fittest.
Unless...
Unless your wind opens her wings,
uplifts her,
carries her off,
on warm currents,
to a safe and happy haven.

Bless your wind.

on B's birthday

We few, we medicated few, 
dedicated to the fight for survival. 


We few, we suicidal few, 
who ponder death as others choose their salad. 


We few, we desperate few,
who don't admit it, because we don't want to be dramatic. 


A self-censoring response,
to minimalise or marginalise our pain. 
It feels so out of place, 
so difficult to be taken seriously, 
until we 'do something about it'. 


"Do you have a plan,
to harm yourself or others?"


Covered for insurance purposes. 


I'm a quick strategic thinker, 
I could develop a plan
to turn my nightmare visions into reality. 


But I don't. 


Because I don't need to. 


You sit on the lid, 
keeping that darkness inside the box. 
Not unleashing it on me. 


But I understand when the few, 
the medicated/un-medicated, 
decimated, hopelessly hopeful few do. 


We ask, 
do not hurt or betray us. 


Take our shattered hearts
and give us new, clean, whole ones. 


Amen.