Poetry

I don’t know the why (dVerse prompt) – 17/9/17

I remember the joy when I first realised a poem does not need to rhyme. I wrote a not-bothered poem, unrhyming, looked at it and thought, this isn’t poetry. Then I looked again and thought, who cares? I like to write my poems in huge blocks and chunks of text, then I come back later and cut it up into the rhythms my tongue tasted as I spewed it from  my mind to the blank white. If I write fast enough I can get this feeling out, amazing how my thoughts come forth in settled patterns, forcing a poem. Later I will read it back and think, how on earth did that genius, that tiny bit there, come out of me? I will then cut ruthlessly to remove the non-genius. I do not remove it all because to do so would often leave me with one word here and one there looking completely unrelated on the page. I often write in Drought. Dust colours my nostalgia, my water is my utopia, my earth and joyous home is crackling grass and the flying crows that whiten bones. I write in feelings and also gel pens or black pens or computer screens. I try to make my feelings clearer by obscuring them in metaphor, in the hopes that someone will pick my wild random phrase and say, you know, I have felt that too. I want my words to give me wings. I will write an impossibility and after when I read it through, I will say, you know, I believe that this could be real and look, look at how that word there is fluttering, it wants to be true as well.

 

Summer takes a sigh

Lungs collapsing in the sun

Birds fly on up-draft

 

-zu

A prompt from dVerse, to explore why we write in the style we do, with a traditional haiku at the end. I’m not sure my response made my why any clearer, but I didn’t realise before I thought about it that this is definitely my style, at least at the moment. I haven’t put in any line breaks as I usually do so you can see it as it is raw. I still and probably always will be growing in the way I write, so this is a snapshot of me now, I guess.

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Poetry

Real Interactions Turned Poetical. – 15/9/17

The painter philosophical,

Tubby fleeced and rovers boots,

Sermonising, gesturing, he’s a preacher,

Half a Russian dancer,

Half wry smiles and shrugs.

Back to work I guess.

 

-zu

 

A metaphor challenge today from dVerse. I think I still have a lot to learn about metaphors. 😊

Also found this Ted talk about metaphor by Rosemary to be really helpful and inspiring: https://youtu.be/eXC3-ZFkhDo

Also this is based on an honest-to-goodness real person I met today, who probably never woke up this morning thinking he would be made into a poem by evening and probably will never know that he was.

Poetry, Prompts

dVerse prompt, shoes – 30/8/17

Summer shoes to be

Discarded, corner tossed

Feet free in the grass

– zu

A prompt from dVerse about shoes, I’ve always enjoyed hot weather when I can kick them off! This is a haiku, 5-7-5 syllables. I always have trouble with syllables because when in primary school they taught us to count them by the amount of times our chin went down when we said the word, well with my Australian accent words tend to become a little compressed! Does anyone have a better method of counting syllables? 

Poetry

The Painter – 25/8/17

See him striding down the side,
pot belly, paint pot.
The building’s grey, and so’s the sky,
he hums and sighs, oh me, oh my.
Long since he cast out desk sitting,
table tops and filming,
now taking pegases flying on advertising,
under a goldy street light
and an endless race track, looping, losing.
We win the race to this light, and lose it to the next.
And when we are stowed away
in some garage, others still race on.
We don’t mind, we idly watch our race losses,
it’s the only the missed turns that get your goat.
But goats are not uncommon on the grassy patches in between the buzzing highways.
People who are late for losing, lately coming,
late for work, third time this week.
We still don’t know when to indicate. Incinerate or irritate,
no irrigation is required, third time this week.
Dwarfed by madly spinning tyres,
the kind that smoothly overtake.
And just a small cut into the landscape,
another road be blowed.
Takes five years to get that kind of did undid.
And his eyes are still drawn to soft edges,
vagrant grasses, sickly shrubs,
trees that cannot seem to stop,
often a magnolia, sometimes misty rain.
 While he sheaves his sickle, sower,
sorry, paint pot or else sander,
the skin beneath his nails is the only part of himnot weather blown and roughened.
The rain falls harder now, scattered shrubs seem thicker,
the road is winding long, so long.
He’s not sure if this should be goodbye,
for if he ends up on the other side of nowhere,
he knows he won’t be back.
That’s why every time he starts he turns back.
Safety in the city, houses stacking, needing painting,
and work is hard to get when the spaces in between em goes for days.
He could never be a farmer, post deliverer, cattle rustler,
nor cowboy, farm hand, window cleaner.
But he never thought he’d be a painter either,
at least, he thought he’d be a painter,
but these days all he’s doing is swatching greys and bones
on depthless walls,
encouraging the buyers to extend and to buy local.
He gets enough walls drab and smoothly coloured to get by.
And when he drives home, in the cherry jam flowing on the road,
he brushes his tired hand across his eyes,
smarting and dreaming of a roughened canvas
full of red dust and silver moons,
water stones are smooth, red ground is forever.
He tells the road again,
not tonight.
And he swears again,
this cannot be the only tune to sing.

– zu

 

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night.

Poetry

Seed – 19/8/17

I am a seed in brown casing

Dreaming in darkness of shifting sizes and creaking doors,

Sheilded by my long brown hair, knees curled in,

I am so close to the ground, my mind is swirling in the skies,

Content as I am, does a seed know how far it will shoot?

-zu

Poetry

Why Not Stop and Stare – date:a long time ago I wrote this poem

We’re going down the highway, and we’re almost back home,

The sun is at its highest and it glistens on the dome.

We’re skidding round the corner and rolling down the straight,

And avoiding all the road-hogs, full of rage and hate.

We’re gliding past some road-kill, down along the track,

And until we’ve gone right by, I won’t look back.

For they did no wrong, and only died by chance,

And we rush right by them, with no second glance.

Galahs fly overhead, with no second thoughts,

As we speed in plastic bubbles, for they think us funny sorts.

As we drive along the highway, not stopping on the way,

With our artificial air, we could drive like this all day!

No time to turn down creek beds, as the willows nod and sway,

No time to stop at all and we simply cannot stay.

No time to watch the kangaroo, with a joey in her pouch,

No time to wait for native birds, who come if you silently crouch.

No time to lay on golden grass and stare up at the sun,

Speeding past in plastic bubbles, you miss a lot of fun.

No time to crush a gum leaf, and smell the gum-fresh air,

As we fly on by, going as fast as we possibly dare.

As we swoop on down the highway, for we’re very nearly home,

And the afternoon sun, glistens on the highway’s dome.

We’re speeding round the corner and flashing down the straight,

For we simply cannot stop, and we simply cannot wait.

And I stopped and watched the plastic cars, rushing till the end,

Swooping out of sight, under a gum tree, round a bend.

And I sighed behind them, why not stop beside the track,

And turn down a creek bed and don’t worry to go back?

Lie down in the shade in the golden grass that’s fair,

And learn to stop and stand and stare.

And take a gum leaf from a gum and crush it in your hand,

And learn to really see what is good and grand.

Why not stay till night fall, and watch the ghost gums dance,

And wander past the creek bed and take the track by chance.

For the earth is much too wonderful, not to stop and stare,

And gaze upon a joey’s face, and dance without a care.

 

-zu

This was such a long time ago. I actually wrote this while I was driving, on the way home on the highway with my family. As I was driving, I couldn’t exactly write, so I memorized the whole thing somehow and wrote it down when we got home. I believe we were very close to home at the time otherwise this would have been lost into oblivion for all time.

Poetry

dVerse Quadrille #37: What Leads to Fear – 2/8/17

Running that’s the truth
And tipping, tripping, lie, or tie me down
Too late
Unexpectedly at the sheer drop
Arms windmilling
Against the fearful drop
And back I tip
Running again
Whipping though lovely foliage
In dancing copperplated heels
Down amongst the laughing trees.

 

-zu

Following the prompt at dVerse – Quadrille #37–Be Not Afraid.

Please let me know what you think, constructive criticism is always welcome!