Powertry

 I did something unusual (for me) (of late) last night.

Well, being out at night was the first bit of unusual - we will check PASSED against the "being able to drive at night" checkbox for our post cataract operation checkbox.

And even though it WAS our anniversary - the traditional gift for sixteen years (I know, that is a BIG number) is apparently NOTHING because its no longer special - V did give me the gift of going out without him last night.

Last night I went to our beautiful little local(ish) bookshop that has some lovely community events.  One is the Book Club that I am part of and meets the last Sunday of the month - and another is the Budding Poets Society.

This image was advertising last night's poetry, not of last night's poetry.  A picture of the organiser and a few enthusiasts in the bookshop.

I used to HAUNT poetry nights.  Back in the day - the day was very, VERY long ago (last century) - I could be found at a poetry afternoon or night or two per week.  In Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane I spent many an hour listening to poets speak their (and occasionally other) words and spoke a few myself. 

Younger me even went to FESTIVALS to listen and speak.

But children - and work and life - came along and the muse took a nap.  I drive a mean spreadsheet and my macros could be called poetry, but my spare time is sparse and bereft of inspirational sparks.  And even were there sparks, the light and energy to capture them is so fleeting that I stopped seeking them out.

So last night, I ventured out.  'Salina is a regular at this event.  She does not write poetry (yet) (she does wield a mean journal though) but has read one of mine there before (The second one in this post - I had forgotten I even went to the workshop!)

The little space was fairly full - probably up to about 20 people - and some beautiful new words being trotted out.

I only have my old work to lean on.  'Salina did "My Addiction" - a poem that used to be one of my standards and a bit of a party piece (oh, my wild days of youth when I knew how to party!!)   

'Salina didn't grow up with her mother dragging her to poetry dives, and so didn't grow up with me reciting this and other things around her, so it was a clean palate that the poem landed on, and she did it justice - and hearing a poem that I know so intimately read with another's interpretation was refreshing.

Everyone got to read up to 2-3 poems, and there was a list for people to put their names down - pre- and post- intermission.  Intermission was nibblies in the room we normally use for the Book Club.

On the list was was a grizzled older poet who had a full life a tales; a (very-nearly) former English teacher; a woman retrospective about life turns; someone who asked for divine guidance in a library to guide her to a book of poems (she found an absolute beauty by a refugee); a man whose health issues have forced symbiosis with poetry; a first-time reader with a lovely snapshot of a relationship end; a lady reading some classic Australian poetry; a woman who interwove some classics with her own.

I read "Drought Breaking" and "The Spinster Song" before intermission, and "Powertry", "Ode to the Dishwasher" and "Fanta Boys" after.

It was fun.

Who knows.  I might even write again.

Fiesta Fairy Floss

I watched them whisking fairy floss
       At the fiesta today.

Bulbs of lime green spun sugar
     around and around
     until gorged.

The fairy floss I remember from my childhood
     was bigger and fatter
And now I am, and all my childhood memories
     seem minimised.

A child near to me was attempting
To negotiate her knob of mollten sweetness
     Between the boundaries of
          What her mother may allow;
     And
          What her mouth may accommodate.
     She overestimated on both counts.

And the fairy floss's lime green
     Exactly matched
The elastics in her hair.

(Written around the time of a West End Fiesta I would say - possibly 1998 or 1999?)

Not that sort of poet...

If you are someone that thinks poetry requires rhyme, then I'm not that sort of poet.

If you require obscure rules to be followed and scans to be precise, then I'm not that sort of poet.

If you like a punchline at the end of each verse and do not wish to think outside of any box, "Thank You Very Much" - then I'm not that sort of poet.

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Maybe I am a proset?  Or would that be prosette?

I like to use the sounds that words make to paint pictures.

I like to make patterns.

I sometimes even try to snowflake in little devices to make my sort of receiver take note and grin the inner grin that generates the warmth of knowing that there is another human being in the world that gets what you wish that you could say in a way that you wish you could say it even if you had never been in that particular situation or realised that it needed to be said?

I know - its true, there are very few of those types of people in the world.

That would be why there are very few of my sort of poet.

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How is the weather in your neck of the woods?

I wrote a poem tonight - a rare enough event these days.  Ah youth, when I used to have a dozen to choose from each week at various readings.

Still, one.  Better than where I was at yesterday...

So - here is a poem about the weather...

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Weather Wail

We live in a house
That is the wind’s harmonica.

This wind has gone out,
    got drunk
and is whistling its way home tonight.

It’s a dance, a lament
An aria
    A smattering of raindrops
The sawdust for its soles.

The flashes of lightning are disco balls reflecting
    Lurid suits cutting the dancefloor.

The thunder a stomping of boots
A rumble of mirth
    A delicate chunder
Behind the garden fence.

Class act, I know, but this weather cares not for your sensibilities.
Its charged
and quite the adolescent anarchist tonight.

---

So - give me your own weather update in whatever sort of poet (or not) you may be...

Lipon

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, a young(er) mother lived in a share house with her daughter and two other ladies.

One was a beautiful Asian princess and one was a glorious Australian poet - but this story is not about them...

Once upon a time I sat on the back deck after the child's book time and song time and story time and sleep time to muse - but this story is not about her either...

Once upon a time, overlooking the glistening lights of  the 'Gabba and hearing crowds go home from yet another Lions victory *, I sent a query out to the universe.

The universe responded.  Yay universe.

Of late, Mrs Woog has come to bemoan the world of the online date, jaded as it is by charletan pollution and unsolicited daguerrotypes of appendages - and it brought to mind a little story from the beginning of the courtship of V and I.

Very early on in our long-distance communication, our conversations jumped from the computer screen to telephone screen.  We had interacted vocally, but at an exhorbitant fee **

I have told you that this was a long time ago - a long, long time ago, in fact.  So long ago, that when you texted, you had to not just type each letter individually  but r-e-a-l-l-y type each letter.  And not just no-predictor-text level of slowness, but a truly challenging task ***.

For example, to type in the world "understandably", you had to press "88663(wait a second for the phone to recognise that as "d")33777(pause)7777826632(pause)22555333" - and if you wanted to type "distraction", it was "3444777787772(pause)222844666(pause)66" - and as texts were CHARGED and limited in numbers of characters, you learned to abbreviate and spelling errors existed.

So, given it is the middle of Winter and given that there are no floor coverings where I was living (but moving from, to Paradise) and given that V was in warmer climes , our discussions turned to footwear and their relative merits.

Now, I am not renowned for my shoe-surety...  but it turned out to be V's toe in the door, his great step forward, emerging from the pond of hopeful suitors to contemplation of worth.

He lyrically described to me his slippers (there was one point in time when I could have quoted exactly the phrasing used) and its merits.  There was possibly an entendre or two thrown into the 160 character mix.  And then he told me The Pet Name.  He refered to his "lipon".

I nearly choked on my wine.   Who was this wierdo?

Then, he asked if I wanted to see a photo of "it".

I panicked and raced downstairs to where my poet-companion resided.  What the actual?

His fate was to be decided by his next missive.

A photo of a great big hairy (tartan) slipper! **** *****

It turned out, he had meant to type "slip-on" - and just like that, the courtship was back on track...

And the rest, as they say, is history.

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* yes, once upon a time the Lions won many games - even in a row.

** Doesn't that date a story - telephone calls used to be expensive and not part of a BUNDLE, children

***yet still legal to undertake while operating a motor vehicle, folks - the veritable dark ages

*** Unfortunately photographic proof is impossible as the phone has long since passed this mortal coil and it was so long ago, children, that CLOUDS did not exist - and

**** We have never since seen such a perfect pair of backless tartan hairy slipper suitable for a size 12 bloke.

So - what was your most memorable courtship gift - and was it solicited...

un-Crush-ed

*
(Fair warning - **

***

****

Do you know what I have been doing?

Reliving my youth, that is what.  Well, on a strictly part-time, quality basis that is but very rarely afforded in the present life.

It is currently the local Arts Festival  (Crush Festival).  This year, I actually KNEW about it before it was on.   And got my act together enough to get the family organised - ish.

*****

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On Friday night, I had the great pleasure of participating in the "Holding Worlds in Your Words" workshop with Scott Sneddon.  (courtesy of Queensland Poetry Festival)

One of the great things about poetry workshops is you often come up with poems that otherwise would never have seen light of day.  Sometimes this is a good thing.  Either way that you take "this".

For example...

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Strawberry Jam

                I am not tempted by you

                Sticky.  Red.  Juicy.

No, for I am strong.

Nuts crushed between my teeth definant

                At the balancing act of me

                Twice as large as once I aimed.

                And the pull of red sugar syrup.

That was a "one minute purge" poem - the  second one we had done.  The first was for no-one's eyes, this is the one written with the concept that it would be read by everyone in the whole world.  I don't think it is quite there.

---

Dusted white across the brow

Wrinkles where a thumb pressed down.

Once – I was hot
                I was admired
                Desired.

Oh sure.  Some may not have liked the sultana slant
But my sweet, gluten kiss
                To your lips.

Oh once, you would have reached.

But now.  Now plucked from amongst the pile of
                discards
A life class drawn by words.
A technique for the fastidious of hips
                To erupt the thoughts within.

Once
A panacea with cream and jam.
Make me yours.
I shall be whole again.

We were to personify an inanimate object - our table OBVIOUSLY got a scone (the other tables had 2 paper coffee cups or a blue whiteboard marker - you should have heard some of those - it is a great exercise - you should try it)
#

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I was interrupted by organising 'Salina's social life and repercussions - it seems motherhood isn't completely suspended - and so came in on the tail of the instruction for the next exercise.  I wrote two poems from it - guess the technique?

If the Sun was in my pocket

                I’d be a rocket.

If the Sun was in my pocket
                How hot would you find me?

If the Sun was in my pocket
                It would kick your cancer’s ass.

If the Sun was in my pocket
                I would hide behind the moon and
                sing Bonnie Tyler songs.

If the Sun was in my pocket
                Sizzle would be my sound.

##

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Yesterday, for the first time in - too many years, I cannot remember the last time - a very long time, I got to go to a Poetry Slam.  This is where you have two minutes ****** to read/perform/recite your poem and there are judges who determine who wins and who nearly wins.

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*******  The poem I performed was very much an oldie.  It was my "go to" piece at the very beginning of my time doing performance poetry when I was in my 20s and living in Sydney.  It never used to be considered for Slams as it was over a minute in length.  And double bonus - for the vast majority of the crowd, it was a new poem ********!

ODE TO THE DISHWASHER

 

          I look at you and regress years.

My maturity dies,

And the desperate devotion

Of a teenager surfaces.

Illogical, but so in lust!

          Your eyes, surveying your surrounds,

That I have forced into,

Meet my face and pass.

I read a thousand meanings in that glance,

          My mind in turmoil.

Turgidly it fights for realism -

My soul destroys such thoughts

And builds a castle on this foundation.

          Your smile - so complete,

                So sexy,

Rips my resolve.

But it was for another

And I crumble.

          Sweetly secure behind the cake counter you pose.

I scribe my desire,

Hoping passionately you can read minds;

Hoping fearfully that you can’t.

          I want.

And my want is fervid.

The hormones rush and settle on fragments.

          Oh!  The casual toss of a tea-towel

          over a shoulder

Takes the place my head would fit.

          Your hands plunge into the warm, soapy water,

Were that they were mine.

          I sit and stare.

Your hair!  Your eyes!

Your movement a sublime ritual,

Your face in concentration

          Over a stubborn milkshake container.

          You turn.

I turn away.

My spying eyes burn in shame.

          But this teenage bout

Of lust a fantasy

That I fear

Would not sustain any maturity.

          So I sit

          I stare

          I dream

          I drool

Yet I realise that

If, and when, perhaps we meet

You shall be well protected

From an onslaught

Of ravishtation

By the tentative hold this woman

Has

On the girl within.

It went well - I got a "nearly win" prize, which is the story of my Slam career ###.

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* (Edited Journal Extract)

(With extra bits)

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** for those new - hello - word of warning.  I use lots of words.  Very few pictures.  I do occasionally post lots of pictures - but this isn't one of those posts.  Lots of words.  Ask yourself, do I enjoy reading? Do I enjoy reading lots of words?  There is no refund at the end of the post.)

(Please realise that I have actually taken a lot of originally written words out.  True, I have added a few in also - case in point - but you are only getting edited highlights of the original "regurgitation of the soul" - true, it was actually a phrase used in some of the stuff cut out.  Dodged a bullet there, didn't you.)

(See - took out a whole paragraph there and you didn't notice)

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*** Ahem.  As I was saying, I have been sleuthing around and actually discovered that there was the possibility of

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***(No, I didn't cut off that sentence- that is how some of it went.  Left that in there so you could see it)

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*****(I took out all of the drivel surrounding "to the taste of my refined palate".  Phew!)

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# I know - it does LOOK like I am obsessed with food in poetry - I swear, food is only a device.

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## (I am only posting one - the other one didn't make the cut) 

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****** Wusses - we used to only get one minute.

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******* The last time I went to a Slam - I was not a mother.  I was barely a partner.  To a different man.  In a completely different set of circumstances. I was also pre-menstrual - I apologise to V.  Let us say the lead up to the Slam was not pretty, but we survived the organisation of such and actually made it.  
Will do better next time honey.  Thanks.

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 ******** Not bad for a poem first penned - eek - about 22 years ago - half my life. Eek!

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 ### The first ever slam I entered (I got a "nearly won"), the lady who won was a bit of an enigma - even more so when she won the second ever slam I ever entered (I got a "nearly won").  I asked her why she didn't go to other poetry stuff - she said "I am a mother".  Now I understand, Amanda.  I never saw her again.

Morning

(This is a poem that I wrote in about 1995.  I say 1995, but it could be anytime around then, as I was quite prolific at the time, and, as is a running motif in my life, I was excellent at keeping a system of indexing my work - ahem - to the point where I would have considered it aberrant behaviour on my behalf to be remiss in recording the date and status of mind, except - well, except that always has been the case in my life (hence the running motif reference) to the point where it isn't working at all and I have to rebuild a new system - and apparently, as I discovered this evening, such a schism in organisational prowess seems to have occurred about exactly when this poem was penned. Anyway... once upon a time.)

MORNING

Day breaks

                And unrested, alone I wake.

I rise with slumber’s rage

Without the pillow of another spine,

My arms around a chest entwined:

Sleep leaves me best when I arise

With another -

                and shower and wash

                away the night’s devotion,

Massages me with body lotion;

Feeds me well, gives caffeine hits -

                I am soon unclouded of morning mists.

Yet this day crests,

                And alone am I, too.

And I say

                “Poor me”.

                “Poor you.”