WordsFlow Writers

Edwin Wilson on Poetry and Memoir

2009-12-07T23:49:00.019+11:00

I was tempted to head this “Local Boy makes Good”. Visiting writer Edwin Wilson, who spent a recent Saturday afternoon talking to WordsFlow participants and visitors, grew up in these parts. (At the end of this post you'll find his impressive CV.)

He was back here to visit family, and we grabbed him for a gig. He spoke to us about poetry, getting published, and memoir writing. His reminiscences of his youth in this region were interesting to others who grew up here, who swapped stories about people and places they all knew. It made them keen to buy his memoir, “The Mullumbimby Kid”. He said he felt Mullumbimby to be his “heartland”. When he chose to write about it, he did the “shoebox trick” of collecting and storing anecdotes. He had to do some research to gather information on the background of people. Every family, he found, has someone who acts as the custodian of the myths and legends – not only of the family but also the locality.

Poetry

As a poet, he started at 10, and feels it can be an important safety-valve for the young. Craftsmanship becomes important. He likes to let a poem “marinate” – work on it, put it aside and sleep on it.

He keeps paper and pencil in his pocket all the time, and also next to the bed. (If it’s a pencil rather than a biro, you know it’s going to be working.) When you get an idea, the trick is not to lose it; it can be fleeting.

Revision

You’re only a poet if other people call you that, he said. It’s useful to get someone else to look at your manuscript and say, ”These bits don’t work”. Edwin thinks writing is necessarily hard. “If the writing is easy, the reading will be hard. If the writing is hard, the reading is easy.” However, strive to get a first draft, THEN start the revision. Show your work to someone you respect, whose opinion you trust. (And then sleep on it etc.)

He likened writing to a symphony in one’s head, with different movements – slow, fast, sad, happy, crescendo, storm, denouement, resolution. There can be variations in themes; there can be echoes, and references back to things already written. Also one can take stuff out, creating spaces to put other things in.

Musicality of the senses is essential in poetry. In prose too there are cadences. It’s important to sound the words in one’s head.

Memoir

One man said he was having trouble finding the structure for his autobiography. Edwin’s advice was, ”Play with it. Then it falls into place. Patterns form.” As a scientist, he likened it to classifying vertebrates. “When you find the pattern, you get the story line. It’s also like a kid playing with blocks. Art is made from indulgence. You are permitted to indulge yourself. (Other people don’t necessarily find it so.)”

His advice to all of us was that memoir is valuable to our children and grandchildren. “Your voice is important.” It’s true there will be different recollections of the same events. “We are human and fallible. But it’s YOUR story.” The habit of journalling helps, as you’ve then got a record. This doesn’t mean it’s right; there are still variables. But your story is as valid as you can make it. Whenever you write a story it will cause problems. You could use the 30-year rule: write about something that happened 30 years ago.

Write irrespective of other people; make the first draft as if writing for yourself. The custodian of the story is you. Forgetting or concealing is OK. If others disapprove, that‘s OK too. You may edit or censor for your own reasons; that’s fine as well.

What’s the best place to start?

Edwin made the following points:

• It’s your story, of your family. People tell lies; that’s part of human nature. Get as close as possible to veracity. Whatever you do, you won’t please everyone.

• An outsider’s perspective can be better; they’re not constrained by local politics.

• Our role is not to hurt people or be malicious, but our goal is veracity. Sometimes we may choose to leave things out.

• An amalgam of lots of facts from lots of places constitutes fiction.

• Australians love taking the piss, and are not pious.

• If you work better to a deadline, you can create artificial deadlines. “I will finish this chapter by next Monday” for instance.

• You need whys and hows – motivations and reflections – not just a linear account of what happened when. You need the philosophy and psychology behind the events.

• Start with what you know, and work back.

• Then you must look for documentation and corroboration. If two people agree, it’s probably true. It’s a detective game. You’re looking for clues, following leads. If you know the background, it’s easier. Uncommon names are easy to find. You can cross-reference. You may find a distant cousin with a loyalty to the story, a commitment to truth and a desire to share.

• You may need to be “a bit rebellious, a bit curious” and look deeper than the official version.

• If you’re worried about treading on toes, you can wait until time has passed. You can write a book and dedicate it to the local library, and put an embargo on it for 30 years.

• Chronology is not as important as reflection, in relation to realising who and what you are – which readers also want to find out.

Edwin's CV:

Educated at Mullumbimby and Murwillumbah High Schools, Armidale Teachers' College (trained as junior secondary science teacher), University of New South Wales (BSs in chemistry and botany).

Initially taught (science teacher), then lecturer Armidale Teachers' College (1968 - 1971), Education Officer (The Australian Museum Sydney, 1972 - 1980). From 1980 to retirement (in 2003) worked in Community Relations at the Royal Botanic Gardens Sydney. Retired as Hon Research Associate (see web page Royal Botanic Gardens Sydney), on an orchid breeding program using high altitude New Guinea 'Latouria' dendrobiums to potentially bring cold-tolerance into show bench hybrids/varieties.

Has written 20 books, mostly poetry, one book about poetry ('Falling Up Into Verse'), plus prose, one science fiction, and social history (about Royal Botanic Gardens and Domain Sydney, and featured on 'Poetica' on program called 'Walk in the Gardens'). Collected Poems published by Kardoorair Press, Armidale (2002), with introduction by Professor John Ryan. Also took up painting in retirement and was elected as Exhibiting Member of the Royal Art Society of NSW in 2008.

Published a number of times in 'Australian Folklore', and has just had an essay published in latest edition of 'Five Bells' (the Poets Union) on Poetry and Art. His latest book (of poetry) called 'My Brother Jim' (1939 - 2008), is dedicated to the memory of his half-brother Jim, found in 2003, when Edwin was 61 and Jim was 64.

The Bone Woman

2009-11-17T23:32:00.008+11:00

Our writing prompt, The Bone Woman, came from a poetry anthology of that name with an interesting title poem. Our pieces completely reinterpreted the phrase, all in different ways. Here are some I particularly liked:

The Bone Woman, by Bron Trathen

Her skin was like parchment stretched tightly over her skull, her eyes sunken pools. Every so often you caught a reflection and realized her eyes were moving, watching everything. Her arms lay out across ice blue pillows like bones dug up from an archaeological site. The skin was so fine the bones appeared to be covered in dust.

Her mouth moved and I bent down to listen. A gurgling sound rose up from her chest. I felt as if I was in a place of God: I needed to be quiet and respectful.

With great effort she lifted her skull head up off the pillow, and in a rasping voice she spat the words,

‘Where did he hide my money?’

The Bone Woman, by Anne Kiddle

She collected bones; hundreds of them. Any kind: animal, human, bird or reptile found their way into her collection. They were always white and no longer than 30cm. She never cut or shaped them, just moved them around on a piece of cement sheeting until they formed an artistic picture; like a mosaic.

The latest masterpiece was a landscape, looking out to sea in the background. Tiny bones formed the crests of the waves and slithers of fine lacy ones depicted sheaves of cut wheat. Looking at it from a distance the reality was stunning, I studied it for hours. Suddenly I was inside the picture looking out; now it was almost a prison.

The Bone Woman, by Nan Doyle

She flexed her fingers and stretched her toes. Tall and lean and underfed she rummaged through the bins in the food hall. Leftover bones from KFC and a half eaten bun from McDonalds. The Bone Woman knew that she could survive like this for a very long time. How wasteful the people who frequent these places are. She shook the takeaway milkshake container. Jackpot! Someone wasn't very thirsty. How spoilt these children are. "I want, I want I want...." and then they leave it all behind. She knew that if she picked her shifts and kept an eye out, the staff wouldn't feel compelled to move her on. She wandered in and out the tables, eyes darting this way and that way, watching for the next half eaten meal to be discarded. The Bone Woman was in business.

What To Do When the Tsunami Warning Comes

2009-10-15T00:58:00.004+11:00

By Rosemary Nissen-Wade
(WordsFlow facilitator)

On this stretch of the Australian coastline, our greatest fears around climate change are to do with the invasion of the ocean. Our only question is whether that will be gradual or sudden: rising sea level or tsunami? It appears to us that the sea level is visibly rising bit by bit, the high tide line much closer in than it used to be. On the other hand, I was assured by one of my sons a couple of years ago that we have nothing to fear from tsunami here: the tectonic plates in this area are such that it couldn’t happen. The Australian Government doesn’t seem to agree with him though – we now get tsunami alerts. So far none of them have come to anything, but apparently it could happen. That’s a scarier idea than rising sea level. Unlike the poor citizens of the small Pacific islands which are likely to drown, we’ve got a lot of inland to retreat to and time enough to asses whether that’s going to be necessary. Tsunamis, though – that thought is terrifying. We’ve already seen on our TV news the damage they can do, and how fast they can do it.

With Blog Action Day coming up, WordsFlow’s most recent group exercise was to write on what to do when the tsunami warning comes. As usual, everyone handled the topic differently. There was the fictional approach, the journalistic, the philosophical…. One thing, though, was strikingly the same. We all felt quite sure we’d be utterly unprepared. If it was the middle of the night, would we wake up in time? Mari imagined trying to shake her husband awake and get him to understand what was happening, then floundering around wondering what to do next. Would we have time to get dressed and grab our pets and our valuables? Which would be the nearest, highest hill? Would the roads be so choked with cars that we wouldn’t make it? As we read out what we’d written, a sense of powerlessness pervaded the room. Some people felt so hopeless about the chances of getting away, they thought they might just as well wait it out and pray. From the TV images we’ve seen, that would probably be a self-imposed death sentence. It was a sobering exercise indeed!

Dinah, ever practical, decided to follow it up with a query to our local Council. They told her which was the quickest way to high ground from her place. As with every road away from this bit of coast, she’d have to dip down into a low valley before going uphill. They also sent her several brochures about tsunamis, and what to do in case of that or any emergency. I asked them to send me some too.

It seems my son was right. “On average, a tsunami is recorded in Australia every two years, but most are too small to be seen by people. The tsunami threat to Australia varies from ‘low’ for most of our coastline to ‘medium’ along the northern half of WA (see map, page 27). A small one struck WA in 1994. In the 1980s a tsunami reached Darwin at low tide, which fortunately cancelled out most of its force. Evidence also exists of large tsunami impacts on our south-east coast, but before European settlement. The largest actually recorded in Australia was in August 1977 at Cape Leveque, WA, with a ‘run-up’ of 6 metres (ie wave travelled inland to where the ground was 6m above sea level).” [From “Hazards, Disasters and Survival]
http://www.csu.edu.au/faculty/arts/sslib/aemf/HDS/chapter_9.htm

We live on the east coast. The Australian Government brochure on “Tsunami Awareness”, one of the documents the local Council sent us, says, “In May 1960 a
great earthquake along the tectonic plate boundaries in the sea of Chile generated the largest recorded tsunami along the east coast of Australia. The event generated tsunami waves of just under a metre (trough to coast).” Several places suffered “slight to moderate damage (mainly to boats).”

On the other hand, it seems my son was wrong. I also read, in the Australian Government’s brochure, “Tsunami, Frequently Asked Questions”: Australia is surrounded to the northwest and east by some 8,000 kilometres of active tectonic plate boundaries capable of generating tsunami, which could reach our coastline within two to four hours. One-third of earthquakes worldwide occur along these boundaries. The impact of a tsunami hitting vulnerable, low lying areas on the Australian coast could be significant.”

The same brochure states: A small tsunami may result in unusual tides or currents that can be dangerous to swimmers or cause damage to berthed boats. … The south Java tsunami (17 July 2006) was caused by a relatively small earthquake (magnitude 7.7) that generated a 0.5 metre tsunami. This tsunami inundated the coast by up to four metres in some places, killing over 600 people.” Hmm, seems we can’t relax after all.

So what are the warning signs, and what should we do when the tsunami warning comes?

“The number one warning sign of a tsunami in Australia is the advice you may receive from the media (radio or television) or from police and other emergency services. Follow their instructions immediately.”

Natural warning signs include:

1. Ongoing shaking of the ground in coastal regions (evidence of a large earthquake).
2. There may be (but not always) a rapid rise or fall in sea level.
3. A roaring sound may precede the arrival of a tsunami.

What should you do?

•    If you are at the beach, immediately move inland or to higher ground.
•    If your boat is in deep water and offshore, maintain your position.
•    If your boat is berthed or in shallow water, secure your vessel and move inland or to higher ground.
•    If you are on the coast and cannot move inland, seek shelter in the upper levels of a stable building.
•    Do not return to the coast until you receive official clearance. (A tsunami is not a single wave.)
•    Continue to follow emergency services instructions.

And – my advice – pray!

Another response to Thom's workshop: Jan Busch

2009-09-07T21:27:00.008+10:00

These four poems by Jan Busch were inspired

in the recent workshop given by Thom Moon 10.

I Flew

I flew – inches atop the ocean
gliding flashing across,
snow surf wets my flight

I circle amongst
heavy scented pine trees
now engulf my lungs

perched in an eagles nest
I view the prospect of
dawn rising

infinite flight
infinite water
I abound in abundance

I stand invisible

I stand invisible
absorbing the beauty
my essence starkly strikes
the landscape

where I’ve been;
where I’m going
thousand years old
yet to be born

Hills hug tightly my valley
muddy river snakes through me
my breath my arms my legs
caresses my land

The Rose

The beautiful flower
The Rose

house full of explosion
colours scent shapes sizes

naturally then, their
resting place of choice

The Rose
identifies them.

Thom from Texas

Today Thom came from Texas

To read and show poems he wrote.

asked all to write continuously.

At first seems confusing, hands clasping,
Thoms’s bits and pieces.

Almost impossible, then,
befuddlement gave way to the pen.

Writing happening, the group responded,
words flew, brilliance abound.

Sparkling images, generous emotions,

stories, prose, poems galloped forth.

Wonderful surprising,
energizing electrifying stuff

Thanks Thom from Texas.

Writing Workshop with Thom Moon 10

2009-08-08T14:22:00.059+10:00

By Rosemary Nissen-Wade
(WordsFlow Facilitator)

Thom starts talking. His voice is soft but clear. His words move like an impromptu dance. Liz and Kim (the Cathouse Creek Duo) play music behind him. He tells us, “Write down what you love.”

I write:

Trees. Song. Waterfalls. Andrew. Chocolate. POETRY! Home country. Birds. Purple. Red. Hot sauce.

He keeps talking. He passes out newspaper pages. “Find a word,” he says. “Write it down.” (That’s when I find “hot sauce”.) He hands round books, photos, CDs with evocative covers. “Respond!” he tells us, and, “We only have a short time together. Write while you’re listening.” We find that we can.

We write, he talks, we talk, the music plays, we read out what we’ve written, he recites a poem that responds to our words, he reads out poems by other people….

“Write about one of those things you wrote down, write about what you love.”

I write:

It’s the rain in Tassie that I miss. Strangely, and more the older I get – though when I was young and there, the rain was misery: a deep damp that permeated the whole world, the whole atmosphere. We stayed indoors as much as possible, gazing through windows as rain dripped constantly from saturated leaves. Now, in a sunny landscape, free from cold, I find myself hankering for just that sight of rain, a world of rain, dripping and glistening. I can recall the smell. Rain dripping from acacia, from eucalypts, from apple trees, from blackberry vines – it smells in each case a little different. I have known rain to somehow smell dry, how can that be? When it drips from dry twigs, the smell conveys that dry.

“Why Tasmania?” he asks me. I say that I grew up there. “Have you written much about that?” I tell him I haven’t, not very much, not lately. “Will you?” he asks, like a plea, looking deep in my eyes. I say yes. He talks of his own childhood in Brisbane, and the ways in which that Brisbane has changed, so much so that his Brisbane is lost.

Everyone writes while they listen. I write:

What is lost? Nothing is lost. It’s been said before: if we remember it, it remains. Only the new people cannot remember the old things that we knew. I can remember Byron Bay when it was a sweet little hamlet with dirt tracks. I can remember when the city of Melbourne had no Bourke Street Mall, no crazy glass thing next to St Paul’s Cathedral.

He hands around photos. “Find a photo you like. If you respond to it, you can keep it.” I accept a picture. There’s a large rock in the foreground, obviously placed there by people as some kind of monument. It’s been stuck in the ground and perhaps cemented. The base is much narrower than the top.

I write:

That poor rock is upside-down. It’s cracked, it’s crying. We come into this land, we pick up some great rock and plonk it down any old how, no respect, no thought that a rock is alive. The ancients knew. They would say, “We must sing to this rock, we must heal this rock.”

The grass and the sky are gentle companions for this displaced rock, and the house is far in the background. That is good.

As I actually dislike this photo – enough to respond – I pass it on.

Another bundle of photos is handed around the circle. When it reaches me, I see pictures of Liz, our musician – some on her own, some with her husband, Kim, who is playing here with her. I take four. No way I’d let them past.

I write:

I choose for my delight a picture of a girl in a red hat. She’ll always be a girl to me, with her long hair and her smile that comes from her whole self. My friend for a long time, and I always liked to see those mittens, a sign to me of natural elegance, individuality. And here’s another with a quirky look that I remember too, still with that irrepressible smile. Today is the first time we’ve met in twenty-odd years. Of course it’s like yesterday.

Thom tells the group about poetry in Melbourne in the eighties, when he and Liz and I performed our work at all the venues. [In those days he was Thom the Street Poet, she was Liz Hall (now Liz Hall-Downs) and I was Rosemary Nissen.]

He hands out copies of his latest books. We accept them gladly and keep writing. He keeps talking.

I write:

He tells me not to get lost in his book. Birds and water, and people he loves. How could I not get lost in this book? How could I not float away into other worlds?

He tears up one of his books and hands out individual poems. I get one about nature spirits, read it, and tuck it inside the book he said not to get lost in.

He speaks of fear. ”False Evidence Appearing Real,” he reminds us.

In answer to the question, “How do you know something’s poetry, not prose?” he thinks a minute, then says, “If it doesn’t have music, it’s not poetry”. He speaks of “cadence, rhythm, emotional intelligence in concise expression.” (Then he reminds himself of discursive poems, and epics.) He adds, “It says what we can’t say.”

[No-one finds this odd, being said to a group engaged with poetry. Writers or not, I explain it to myself now, we all respond to poetry that touches us. We’ve all experienced that moment of release when someone says perfectly what we’ve needed said.]

Thom talks about rhyme and free verse, he talks about “faction”, blurring of genres. He says, “There isn’t any form that can restrict you. Revive, come alive, pass it on! No-one owns poetry, it’s all broad air.” [Was the word “broad”? I can’t read my own scrawl.] “Rediscover what’s possible. Go beyond where you were, get out of being comfortably numb.”

I look at the cover of one of his books.

Who are these ecstatic people, hugging and grinning on the book cover? Are they poets? They look wicked enough – wild hair, bright colours, sunshine, joy.

More books are passed around. “If you respond to it, it’s yours,” says Thom. “You can buy these books and CDs from me, or you can pay for them with your response and you get to keep them.”

I find myself holding “The Erotic Spirit” edited by Sam Hamill: “An Anthology of Poems of Sensuality, Love, and Longing”. I dip into it over and over, and respond:

In a book of erotic poems I find a verse about a garden. How appropriate! Gardens are places for love, places of scent and colour, places for the senses, places where we can relax and be, places where it seems love might go on forever, and beauty last beyond our being, and our dreams be real.

Thom declares he will pay us for our writing. He hands around printed $100 bills copied from US currency, labelled “Thom Moon 10 Poet. Street Bills.”

Here is a face on a hundred dollar bill. It’s Thom’s, magic Thom. He writes of elementals and passes out books of healing. Creation of Health, says the title of this one. We know that poetry creates health!

Thom tells us: “Tithe your time for yourself. The best part of yourself, encourage it by feeding it.

”Respond to each other’s words,” he adds.

Aileen reads what she has just written. I respond:

One day I lifted my head. I saw the sky.

Aileen writes of Kwan Yin. Her own compassion sings.

Thom talks of coming home this trip and going to visit his favourite waterfall. It’s on Mt Tamborine. I respond with a memory 21 years old:

The waterfalls I love are in the Northern Territory, on the cliff banks of big rivers that rise and sink with the tides. Where there are steps of rock made for giants, where there are crocodiles that lurk and move fast as light under the surface, and mosquitoes thick and humming. Nevertheless I love those waterfalls of memory, in sun so hot we are near naked, hair sticking to the scalp; night sky so clear we see all the stars, a forest of stars, and little satellites too, clearly whizzing over. Lying back on the deck of the boat, we gorge on fish caught that day and tins of food, a stash of tins. Under the waterfall, anchored, the mozzies don’t bite, the water’s too thick, too fast. I stand with a rifle I don’t know how to use, as the two men row across to the giant rocks, alight and climb the steps. An American girl was taken here last month. But today there are no crocs. There is the roar of the water rushing down the fall, surrounded by a deep pool of silence.

“We are the rememberers,” says Thom.

Then he says, “Always start on an empty page. If you’re stuck, get a new one.” He tells us to have no writing on it, and to watch that there isn’t any showing through from the previous page.

‘If you’re stuck, start with, “I feel”. Start with the personal to get writing happening.’

He says, “If your parents are dead, talk to them anyway” and quotes Adrian Mitchell’s poem about doing just that. I tell him I just read that poem; he reminds me he sent it to me in an email the other day. We both laugh.

At tea-break, Anne, who keeps finding and laminating four-leaf clovers, offers them to everyone. She is surprised at the one I choose; to me it stands out, the only one I want, but she tells me she nearly didn’t include it, she didn’t think anyone would want it.

Kim and Liz must leave now. They gather up their instruments and tiptoe out.

I respond to an object in the room:

That leaf above the blackboard keeps catching my eye. Anne passed out four-leaf clovers. I took a gold one, the leaf dying into even greater beauty. The leaf above the blackboard was made by a child. It looks real, and not. A child made it. I like it. It keeps catching my eye.

Thom continues unaccompanied. We touch on more serious subjects. I don’t know if that’s mere coincidence or whether it’s a response to the new quiet.

Sally talks of her mother’s death and of her work with the aged. Margaret tells the story of her father’s death and then the story of her mother’s. Thom points out that she has been coughing ever since she arrived, but now that she speaks her voice is clear and strong and there is no cough. “You need to speak!” he says, and, “You’re a natural story-teller.”

He recites a poem about dragons, a metaphor for the problems of the urban young. But I don’t see dragons that way.

Dragons, I like dragons, I object when people use them as symbols of bad. I like their fire, I like their wings. I like their claws, I like their golden scales. Their hot breath whispers truth into my private ear. Their great jaws smile. They hold me softly in tender paws, then lift me aloft. On the back of a soaring dragon, I ride and fly.

He talks of telling our own stories, that only we can tell. He tells us that poetry reveals us.

I write:

Confessional.

We sing from deep wells.

He says poets were once called enchanters, chanticleers, and shape shifters. We can become what we write about, he says, we can see through the eyes of a bird or an animal.

I write:

Ancient and beautiful, we sing sweet.

There are histories to write, of the days of Melbourne poets.

I share that last thought. “Would you do it?” he begs.

He asks if we’d like him to tear up a book of women’s wisdom and pass the pages around, or to pass the whole book around and each of us find something in it to note. As he had intuited, we opt for keeping the book whole. It starts its journey around the circle.

I look at his CD, “Spirits Burning and Thom the World Poet”, and write:

Spirits that burn, not in hell but in poems, burn with passion not punishment.

I look at CDs he’s brought from Austin, Texas and the poets there: “Youth Verse”, and "Expressions June 2009: June is a Woman” .

Meanwhile the conversation continues. He talks of the money he earns from this workshop as simply what helps him exist through time and space.

I write:

Woman expresses herself in June. I remember these women, Kathleen, Nancy, Deb. Kathleen’s long pale hair covering the face she tries to hide, the beautiful face. Deb short and stocky, promoting youth. Nancy older and slightly worried.

The Youth Voices of Texas exist through time and space in the form of this CD.

The spirits that burn are depicted by a white cross that looks like a bird in flight.

All these things evoke my responses. Also I am responding to Thom’s continued reminders, woven in and out of the poetry and the talk about poetry: “Respond and you can take it home.”

Remembering that Thom is all about engagement, I write:

Your response buys something. That’s a lesson we’re being taught.

And I write but don't say:

Margaret, are you going to sit on that book forever, of the wisdom of Woman? I look to read that book, I seek that wisdom, though I have my own. There is always more to learn.

Thom talks again of our own voices, our own stories. “What else is there?” he says. “There’s only my life.”

He remarks on the value of groups like ours. "Your lives can be articulated when you’re with people you trust. It’s a sanctuary. Value judgments can be left outside the door." He thanks me for keeping it going for three years. I tell him, “We all keep it going.”

He invites us to continue the conversation of “What’s the real truth about this?” He says we are lending meaning to each other.

"RESPONSE! It’s really all life and response." [Did Thom say that, or was that my own note to myself? At this point we are so aligned, I can’t tell. I’ll credit him with it.]

I know it’s I who write:

A sunny afternoon.
A big room.
Words and music.
The movement of pens.
Books and words.
Memories.
Lines that sing.

[I notice, as I type these notes, how often I mention singing and song. There’s a clue there for me to follow.]

Behind the conversation I stare pointedly at Margaret’s pile of books and CDs, set aside on the floor, till she asks uncertainly what I want. I want the book of women’s wisdom. She scrabbles through the pile and finds it for me. I flip through and find many gems, but these are the only ones I jot down:

“Advice is what we ask when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.” – Erica Jong.

“Never judge someone by who he’s in love with, judge him by his friends. People fall in love with the most appalling people. Take a cool, appraising glance at his pals.” – Cynthia Heimel.

I guess they appeal to the cynic in me.

I don’t respond. I’m glad to have looked at the book but it isn’t one I need to keep.

Thom talks of “body shape fascism”. We believe him because he is fat, like some of us. He speaks of those who would have us conform: "You must look like this. You can't have red hair," gesturing to me.

I quote my youngest on the subject of my deliberately improbable purple-red hair (pictured here): "It looks like you're trying too hard."

Thom tells me, "Rosemary, you are full of aliveness".

We get on to adult children who try to bring up their parents. Several of us have anecdotes. Nan says in a growl, smiling evilly, "Mine wouldn't dare!" We applaud.

Then Thom speaks of going to talk with his mother, to listen to her voice. His father died last year.

I respond:

Your mother’s voice needs your listening now. She doesn’t know, I think, that your father can still hear her.

He is telling us of his friend who works in palliative care, the wonderful things she does for her charges, to empower them.

In my mind I become one of them:

In the garden of tranquillity, poems hang from the trees. I embrace a huge heart larger than myself. There is music that I love. I decide on my last wish. I step inside a magic cloak, my magic cloak, with the power to make my wish come true. And it does.

He tells us how important it is that we speak, that we write, that we don’t give up and accept the status quo. We are agents of change.

“What can we do?” someone asks. He replies:

“You do what you can. Give no energy to limitations, anger, fear. Clearly articulate. Start where you are. Allow your articulation to sharpen.”

He asks, “What will you do next, after today? I’m outa here now. What will you do next?”

I write what I’ll do:

• Write more about the things I love, my own stories.
• Send Thom more of my poems (as today he had to ask if I’m writing many).
• Create a performance venue.

Four WordsFlow regulars couldn't come to this workshop. Four members of the public turned up instead; they left vowing to start coming to the group. We cheered.

We cleaned up the plates and ate the last of the cake. People hugged Thom. People hugged me. There was no mood of sadness on separating; we were filled with delicious joy.

THOM RETURNS TO POETSVILLE!

2009-07-30T22:45:00.008+10:00

POTTSVILLE BECOMES POETSVILLE

THOM MOON 10
visiting from Texas
will present a writing workshop

at Pottsville Beach Neighbourhood Centre
12a Elizabeth Street, Pottsville
on Friday 7th August 1-4 pm
in the Sandbar Room

plus poetry improv
backed by the Cathouse Creek Duo

ALL WELCOME
$2 DONATION
AFTERNOON TEA

Thom will have books for sale.

ENQUIRIES / BOOKINGS
PBNC (Pam, Angela or Julie) 6676 4555
Rosemary (WordsFlow) 6676 0874

Life is challenging

2009-07-24T14:24:00.004+10:00

By Sally Irwin

Life is challenging

There are many facets to death

At first it is a shock and your mind reels back through the past, remembering faces and places, at the same time still coming to grips with the present.

You feel the loss, as another possession is remembered of the things about them and their life as you feel for their loss as if a part of you has also gone.

The world mourns when a good soul has flown.

It makes you realise what is important.

Love and memories are what last

Death brings up a lot of issues when someone you are fond of passes on. It pulls at your heart and it’s hard to move on.

When someone passes that you didn’t get on with, it still pulls at your heart and you really need to move on.

i sit beside rivers

2009-05-18T12:15:00.023+10:00

By thom moon 10
(Thom the World Poet)

astrologers advised(if i wait long enough
i will see the heads of my enemies floating past
yet all my friends have fine and furry heads
and waiting only changes me

i listen more and deeper now
to what you say and do/it changes me enough
(i will change my name again
since i cannot change you

i watch this day like a hawk
looking for some point of contact
gannet strike into deeper water
in search of the perfect one

this ocean of air dried up
summer moved in her heated furniture
emptied the foreclosed planet so we
could write our own versions of history

in progress and under continuous assessment
we each see the same gun
but only one gets killed by a policeman
the other wounded and discharged

as if a circus -giving money to the rich
so they can make more profits
allows a temporary presidency
until the bills come in

elder trees with oak wilt
elder activists with compassion fatigue
aging population asks for health costs
to be borne on the back of the young

imagine a silent movie
with no commentary soundtrack
and you would have to distinguish between
images,mirages,illusions,mirror tricks

reflecting upon armageddon
only changes reflections
point your solar powered eyes towards one moon
she will cycle and recycle you

and even stars cannot be seen
cities industrial waste 's gleam
as smog around the fog of wars
is peace lifestyle worth fighting for?

May 16, 2009

Included (with permission) because I love it - and because I can justify its inclusion on the grounds that Thom has been a guest workshopper to this group in the past. - Rosemary (Facilitator)

The Trouble with Being an Emigrant

2009-05-12T14:18:00.013+10:00

By M Cunningham Webb

Distance causing isolation
From those I felt were close,
Connection so important
Slips away, I feel morose.

Confidences, familial news
No longer sent my way,
‘No need to trouble her with that,
She’s much too far away.’

Desperately I crave inclusion
Still no letters of affection,
Busy lives and other ties
Replace the strong connection.

Chinese whispers run amuck
Words twisted and misquoted,
Miles impede communications
A villain, I’ve been voted.

Dissension stirs within the clan
New hurt, some gossip mongrel
Has dug the chasm wider still,
Slander scapegoat, tribal libel.

Long distance now in heart and soul
No chance for my redemption,
No explanation can I produce
I am guilty, by presumption.

The Gentle Coals

2009-01-08T22:23:00.015+11:00

By Aileen Hayward

(An exercise: to write a piece starting with this first line:)

The rouged coals languished long after midnight
Where gentle heat kissed the cooling air
Soft darkness mantled the chairs and table
And fine bone china gleamed silently there.

Soft spoken words and innocent laughter
Had graced the day in this family room
As matters of import had full discussion
And busy fingers had worked the loom.

“Oh hasten the day when the spring is with us”
She’d smiled to him with her eyes downcast
“These coals I have brought will warm and cheer you”
He vowed “and the fire I build will last.”

He stacked the fire, and hot tea was offered
These two young people so safe in their dream
Her Mama served scones with jam from the orchard
And cream from the cows that stood safe by the stream.

And gentle was he as he made his departure
And gracious the maid as he kissed her hand
So gentle the coals as they kept his promise
To warm the room in this winterland.

There is no question for coals to answer
When faced with a task they are meant to serve
There is no need in the midnight’s stillness
To fret as hands travel the clock face curve.

Should we move slowly and softly eager
To tread more gently upon this earth
The coals in our hearts would stay rouged after midnight
And we would discover creation’s worth.

Clichés

2009-01-07T10:26:00.017+11:00

By Eddie Blatt

Clichés aren’t what they’re cracked up to be. Unless of course you have an axe to grind. Take my wife for instance. Please. She went out in a blaze of glory. Kicked the bucket, bit the dust, gone to meet her maker. She was only 30 when she cashed in her chips. Didn’t stand a chance. She thought she was God’s gift to mankind. But really she was skating on thin ice. The tide had finally turned and she was up shit creek without a paddle. Oh well, here today, gone tomorrow.

The first time I saw her she was dressed to the nines. I was struck by a bolt from the blue.

“Cat got your tongue?” she said to me.

I was caught off guard but I knew the score. I had to sweep her off her feet or she wouldn’t give me a second glance.

“You’re as pretty as a postcard,” I replied. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

God, I must have been dumber than a box of rocks, but hey, I was bent out of shape. I had already fallen for her, hook, line and sinker. Make no bones about it I was as mad as a hatter. But I had put my foot firmly in my mouth and had to think quick on my feet.

“Look,” I said, “don’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Save your breath,” she replied. “I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man alive.”

I had made an ass of myself but it was now or never. I waited for the dust to settle then let fly with both guns blazing.

“Will you marry me?” I blurted out.

She looked like a stunned mullet. Then she suddenly broke out into a laugh. She had a smile as sweet as honey pie.

“Yes,” she said, “a hard man is good to find and you’re just what the doctor ordered.”

**

They say all’s fair in love and war. Take my wife for instance. Please. Well, my best mate did. He took her for every penny she had. Didn’t stand a chance. While she wasn’t looking he took off like the clappers, money and all. He was out of there like a rat up a drainpipe. Off like a piece of gorgonzola. Can’t say she didn’t have it coming. Served her right. In the end she didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Not a zack to her name. The walls were closing in on her and she drove her car off a bridge. What a way to go.

I didn’t see it coming. When all’s said and done, however, come hell or high water, I knew which side my bread was buttered. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. All in all, I thank my lucky stars.

When push comes to shove, it’s love that isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. But it ain’t over till the fat lady sings. Amen.

What makes a haiku?

2008-10-25T14:55:00.010+11:00

By Rosemary Nissen-Wade

Many people think the 5-7-5 format is necessary – five syllables in the first line, seven in the second and five again in the third. As you can see on my Haiku Page, I like to write them that way myself. But 'free haiku', three short lines of juxtaposed images or impressions, are often closer to what I like to think of as the the true spirit of haiku – creating an 'Aha!' moment, or a resonance beyond the sum of the parts.

On Fridays I host "Haiku on Friday" on MySpace. I post a haiku in my blog there, and others post responses in the comments. We have some interesting conversations in verse!

This Friday I posted two, on different topics:

Spring in the tropics.
The avocadoes ripen,
my wind chime sings loud.

*********************

My mother’s birthday.
Ten years and more since she died
but I don’t forget.

I loved the following beautiful response by Erin Jorgensen which marries the two, and which I think is closer to haiku than either of mine!

chimes----
my mother's laughter
on the wind

BLOG ACTION DAY - Post on Poverty

2008-10-15T08:00:00.012+11:00

WordsFlow is participating in Blog Action Day 2008. Today – 15th October – thousands of bloggers around the world are posting on the topic of poverty. Here are some pieces on the subject from WordsFlow members:

POVERTY: What is it?
By Mari Hefferan

‘I am poor,’ said the pensioner. By today’s standards I’m poor. But I am O.K. I have a good family who help out, and great friends. There are plenty worse off than me. Take my best mate. Like me he’s a pensioner, but he has no family and he’s not well, poor beggar. I’m the only person who seems to care about him now. He’s all nerves and his memory’s shot to pieces. Losing his marbles he is. Sad thing is he was quite famous once. Harry Benson, Australian middle weight boxing champ and he played rugby for this country too. Now nobody remembers him. Only me. Poor Harry’s a lot poorer than me.

***********

‘I never thought I’d admit it but, compared with my friends I am quite poor,’ sighed the nurse at the end of a weary shift. ‘Bill and I have four kids to educate. He’s a public servant but he does contract work now and I worry that if he can’t get a new contract in a year’s time I’ll be the sole provider for our family. That’s why I do shift work. It’s hard on the family, but it pays better. A funny thing happened this morning though. When the baby sitter arrived Fanny, that’s our baby daughter, held out her arms to the sitter and called her Mummy. I felt like crying. I wish I could be with my kids more.’

************

‘I might have to sell the house and rent. Another interest rate rise and my salary will be stretched beyond the limit. Being a single parent is a struggle from one pay cheque to the next. I don’t want to sell. Our home is the one stable thing the children and I have in our lives. Well maybe that’s not quite true. I love my kids and they love me but our home means more to us since my marriage break-up. At present I live in hope.

*************

‘We hate renting. It’s such a waste of money when you’re trying to save. We can’t seem to get ahead and houses are so expensive. We’ve thought of moving to one of the outer suburbs but we are near our work here and petrol is so dear. Added to that, we’d be moving away from our friends. You know it’s ages since I bought anything for myself. I’d love a new dress. For my birthday, my best friend Jenny gave me a tiny bottle of “Chloe”. It’s a beautiful perfume. I used to buy it when I was single. Dear Jenny. She’s so kind’.

*************

‘I don’t know what I’d do without the Salvos and St Vinnies. I hated going there for help but Meg and I had to think of the kids. It’s terrible being poor but it’s worse feeling poor. Seeing Megan and the kids looked after made me feel a whole lot better. You know we didn’t have any food to put on the table. This farm’s been in the family for four generations. It was a beautiful place when I was a kid. Green and fertile. We ran sheep as well as growing wheat. Had a few calves too. It hasn’t rained properly for years. The creek stopped running last year and the dams are dust bowls. God, why won’t it rain?’

************

‘What is poverty, my father?’

‘Poverty, my son, is when you have nothing to eat and nowhere to shelter.’

‘Is it like when the tsunami came, my father, and washed away our house, and my mother and our baby drowned and I was so hungry and thirsty too. Was that poverty?’

‘Yes, my son, that was poverty. It’s when you have nothing: no food, no water, no shelter and no-one to care about you. That’s poverty. Just like when the tsunami came and took everything. I could not find you at first and I thought I had lost you. Then I lost hope. But when I found you, my son, I found hope again. We are still poor, but we have hope.’

Poor
By Chris Wren

It struck me, as I strode the street
In reverie, and flight of feet
That in my heart was birthed a treasure
Recognized, and without measure
Flooding every part of me
Well – all the parts you cannot see
So – disregard the tattered clothes
For I am counted amongst those
Who, while the outward fades away
The secret, inward life can say
I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams
I live apart. Or so it seems.
So when I hear the idle chatter
All of things that never matter
Bureaucrats, who having said
“Listen mate, I’ve seen your plight
You’re guaranteed – a bed tonight
Be sharing with the other men
Not too many – nine or ten
We’re trying to tidy up the streets
And parks. The benches and the seats.
What’s that you say – you like the park?
You cant be real – its cold and dark.”

I held his gaze for far too long
He doesn’t know I don’t belong
In safe locked rooms, all tucked up tight
All barred and padlocked for the night
And so I lie upon the beach
The palest moon just out of reach
My richest treasures close to me
The earth the sky the moon the sea.

Poverty
By Bron Trathen

In the gathering darkness he can just see the outline of a figure at the side of the road: arm out, thumb up. Jim Holden slows and stops 50 metres past the figure.
He leans over and opens the door on the passenger’s side.
The hitchhiker, heaving after his sprint to the car, ‘Thanks…you going South?’
Holden leans towards the door: ‘Sure am…all the way to Melbourne. Hop in.’
Settling himself into the comfortable leather seats, Mark soaks in the luxurious interior.
‘Nice vehicle.’
‘Yeh, 0 to 100 in 10 seconds, 3400rpm… an just out of the show room.
‘Cool…’
‘Thought I’d give it a good run in an’…visit my son.’
Mark glances at the man at the wheel…large, obviously likes his food…stylish clothes. ‘…Ahh…bit of a drive ahead of you, then.’
‘That’s why I like company…How far you going?’ Holden stretches out his well-manicured hand and switches up the heating.
‘Just an hour down the road…thanks.’
In the silence that follows the two strangers listen to the hummmmmm of the car engine and feel the warm air round their feet. Outside, there’s still a silvery light in the winter sky ahead.

Holden breaks the silence. ‘Do a lot of hitching along this road?’
Naa! Not really…’ Mark shifts in his seat. ‘I was up in Brisbane…had to see some people…’
‘No car?’ Holden gives Mark a quizzical look.
‘Oh…it needs a bit of work…back home.’
‘So you live…not far from here…is it?’
Mark looks at Holden. He is about to say something then ‘…Oh.’ He twists in his seat and stretches out his hand. ‘…the name’s Mark, Mark Lessing.’
‘Ah…sorry. Holden…James Holden.’
Mark withdraws his hand and continues ‘…Mary, my wife and I…and our three kids live a little inland from the next village. You can’t miss it…’
Holden with his eyes on the road, ‘So what keeps you in this part of the world?’
‘Well…haven’t always lived here…’ Mark absentmindedly fingers the strap on his backpack. ‘Used to have…a business up at Coolangatta…got into bit’v strife…guy owed me a bucket…and didn’t pay up…’ He paused staring at road ‘Oh…then Mellie…that’s what we call her…her name’s Melleni. Well…she got real sick. Oh…you know how it is. One thing led to another and then the Bank…’ He trails off.
Holden sits in silence looking ahead.
‘Mary…she’s amazing…was her idea…to move to the mountain. Oh, its not really a mountain. It’s what we call it…and we have great views. We’ve got two caves…an’ that keeps the rain out. It’s a b...a bit cold in the winter…’
Holden looks across at the dishevelled guy with his well-worn shoes.
‘How long you been living in the bush?’
Mark looks up with a slightly uncomfortable expression. ‘About 2 years.’
Th-the family’s been great. The kids love it…an..and Mary’s created a absolute paradise.’
After a pause Mark gives a wry laugh. ‘Eh! life’s like a box of chocolates…”
He looks at Holden. ‘And you got family…James?’
Holden tightens his grip on the wheel but keeps his eyes on the road. ‘Yeh, Jack’s 24…he’s in Melbourne. Haven’t seen him for 10 years…and Annie, the younger, she’s a bit of an adventurer…don’t know where she is…somewhere in Africa, I think… Haven’t seen Ellen…their Mum...for…ah!…well on 20 years.’ Glancing in Mark’s direction. ‘So, your kids like the bush…lots of freedom…big back yard.’
'Yehhh…Toby, my 12 year old…he decided he wanted to get down the mountain quicker…so… you know what he did?’
Holden looks at him and smiles.
Mark becomes quite animated. ‘Well, he took over my workshop…I do a lot of things with my hands…carpentry most…Anyway, he sort’ve made these.… You remember years ago the things kids would play with…the pogo stick.’
Holden nods.
‘He made these springs to put on the bottom of his shoes… and it’s amazing…they work. You should see him take off. …You in business, James?
‘I do a lot of travelling.’
‘What’s your business?’
Holden thinks for a moment before speaking. ‘Oh, finance.’
‘Finance! Oh, that’s where I’ve been…thought I’d see if we could get some money to develop Toby’s idea. They said they’d get back to me’. Mark fiddled with his strap for a few seconds. ‘I guess we just wait and see.’
Holden sees lights of a service station up ahead. ‘Is this the village coming up?’
Mark, putting his backpack on his lap. ‘Yeah, this is it. Thanks. Thanks mate.’
Holden slows and pulls in to the BP. As they stop, he takes a card from the dashboard. ‘Look, Mark, here’s my contact details. Let me know how you go with your project.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Mark gets out, walks round the front of the car, and holds out his hand as Holden gets out. ‘Hope you enjoy your time in Melbourne with your son, James.’
‘Thanks.’ Holden shakes his hand and then turns to the bowser, and Mark, with his backpack over his right shoulder, walks across the road into the night.
Holden gets back into his car, just as the mobile rings. ‘Holden…. Guy! How’re things?’
The voice on the other end is brash. ‘Listen, Jim. Those transport stocks need to be off loaded straight away.’
Holden, ‘Okay, whatever you think.’
‘Jim. Look there’s something I think you should look at.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think this is going to be real big… I…I think we can make a hit in China…’
‘Spit it out…’
‘I’ve been talking to marketing guys…we need a gimmick for kids. They’re shoes with springs.
‘ Oh!...
‘Yehhh! Well, we need to develop the prototype yet.’
‘How much you thinking?’
‘ A few mil…’
‘When do you think we’d get a return?’
‘Couple of years…’
‘MMMMmmmm….I’ll think about it.’
‘Jim, you going to Hong Kong this week to talk turkey with Hilder?’
Holden is silent for a while.
‘Jim…”
‘Mate, you go. I’m going to spend a bit’ve time with Jack.’
‘I need an answer on the Spring shoes within 48 hours. I’ll send you the details. Jim?’
‘You’ll hear from me…Bye.. Guy.’ Holden closes his mobile and stares into his rear vision mirror. There is nothing, just blackness. He clicks the CD over and settles himself into his comfortable leather seat. ‘I wonder what Jack’s interested in these days’ he says out loud.

Poor (2)
by Chris Wren

Poor? Not really
Destitute perhaps
“Without visible means of support”
A collapsed building
Falling to oblivion
Where truth comes at last
In a forgotten land.
And truth is treasure.
Therefore I am rich
But never poor
Not talking “Calcutta” poor
Not “drunks under bridge” poor
Just an acknowledgement
A bereftness
Somehow lacking
Not quite all there
And certainly not by design or plan
But more the boat’s gently nudging the shore
And coming home
For the minute.

Haiku and original painting

2008-09-08T22:46:00.016+10:00

By Trishaa Moran

Twin branches
mist over water
reflections times two.

For more of Trishaa's paintings, and to hear her songs, go to her website.

A storytelling invitation for you in our book: "Why God Can't Stop Laughing at You"

2008-09-06T15:25:00.016+10:00

(via Eddie Blatt)

PEOPLE OF EARTH We have within the last 24 hours received channeled instructions from 'On High' informing us that the time has come for all the spiritual people of the world to own and confess just how silly they have been at times in their pursuit of the ineffable Greatness of the Divine Being. Indeed it has been decreed that in order to pass through the Pearly Gates, every man, woman and dolphin will have to come clean about some of their spiritual foibles! We, Brian Emmett and Eddie Blatt*, humbly offer the following Storytelling Project as a means to that end. To those prepared we must ask the following deep and meaningful questions:

* Are you getting tired of trying to look so “God-damn spiritual'?

* Are you weary of projecting the image of the oh-so-noble and perfect spiritual personality to the world, equipped with spellbinding morality and unbending integrity?

* Are you yearning to express the Inner Nitwit?

* Are you longing to let the world know just how crazy you and/or your friends have gotten on occasion?

* Do you know a story or two of an unsurpassed absurdity?
If the answer is “yes” to any of these questions then please keep reading! A few more questions to consider:

* Do you believe that God loves laughter and good humor?

* Do you believe that He/She would approve of, and probably even delight in people laughing at their own foibles and silliness while trying to relate to His or Her instructions.

* Do you believe that the Divine would support your participation in a project that may help your fellow humans to become more understanding and sympathetic towards spiritual aspirants and the struggles they endure?

It has been our observation that mixed in with all the profound, transformative and sacred moments which we all have enjoyed in our spiritual life, many of us have, to varying degrees, participated in moments of extraordinary foolishness, staggering jerkiness and world-class inanity just begging to be shared and enjoyed by others. So we are creating a book sourced from spiritual folk about spiritual life, that will not only be funny and/or humorous and reveal genuine insights into who we are as people but also introduce a number of genuine insights and lessons learned about spirituality itself. The book will also serve as an acknowledgment of our common quest for reunion with the unspeakable Greatness of the Divine. One of the more idealistic aspirations we have for this book is to achieve an affectionate camaraderie with those who have left behind the old games of sectarian defensiveness, one-upmanship and undue personal pride, that have served to keep us all at a distance from each other for eons.

So, if like us, you have a lot of yeses in your answers to the above questions, and you have a sense of humor about yourself and maybe even your life-path, you could receive a yearly royalty by becoming a contributor to a wonderful new series of books called:

'Why God Can’t Stop Laughing at You' (The New Spiritual Humor As Revealed By Authentic Practitioners!)

The story about your experiences in Spiritual Life need not necessarily be about yourself as long as you get permission from anyone identified in the story. If you can't write well we offer the possibility of story-submission via audio recording (cassette, CD or MP3, or alternatively by phone). And please feel free to pass this invitation along to your friends! We have a website where you can see sample stories written by us and all the information you may need to become involved. Feel free to come from whatever angle you wish as long as it is humorous, witty, or funny, and not an attack or an advertisement for someone or something.

Our commitment is to A New Spirit Of Openness. The authors who will be included in this collection are those who can demonstrate this new freedom, trust and self-confidence, and who have a lighthearted willingness to have a laugh at themselves in the context of their attempts at spiritual practices. We hope this book will facilitate openness and rapprochement across a broad range of peoples and practitioners from many Traditions, Paths and Religions, and from all across the world.

Yours in Laughter, Brian Emmett and Eddie Blatt
Why God Can't Stop Laughing At You

P.S. Kindly remember: RESISTANCE IS FUTILE!

(Eddie is a member of WordsFlow.)

More Poems by Jan Busch

2008-09-03T16:25:00.013+10:00

Recently I asked WordsFlow participants to write a 'rant', partly because it was a poetry prompt on Poetic Asides that week, and also because it's a great way to write with a lot of energy and clarify one's thoughts into the bargain.

Here for your enjoyment is Jan's rant poem, and as a bonus another piece of hers which defies description!

My rant is:

Others,

who seem to know
what's best for me.
They tell me clearly and daily
what to do or indeed
what NOT to do.

They say,
who to see where to go and
more often than not
who NOT to see and
where NOT to go.

Their opinions freely given, at
no charge, except to me.
FRUSTRATION!
What these kindly well meaning
folks do not realise is,

I am ok
doing what I do
seeing who I see and
going where I want. When
what I actually feel like is,

slapping these advisers around
their body with thongs,
rubber bands,
or even,
a wooden spoon.

Simply, because
these same kindly well meaning,
folks could take their own
advice and
then mirror it.

While I am
never to old or
too young to have fun,
make mistakes, and then
do it all over again.

SO THERE!!!!

Breath Like Poo

Walking along Beryl heard
'Your breath is like poo'

'What who said that' said Beryl
'Your breath smells like poo' came again.

Looking around no one to be found
Beryl was confused and then

'Here - up here'
throwing her head up almost cricking her neck, Beryl noticed

a big lump of poo with white
feathered wings.

'Shit' exclaimed Beryl.
'That's right' the poo said.

Beryl went, 'This can't be right, human
poo goes down the dunny, cat poo

is covered in the garden, and
dog turd is on the footpath'

The poo replied 'Have you not
heard of holy shit?'

Beryl made a snap decision to walk
out of the dream and

on the way out
sucked on a mint.

Great Articles on Poetry

2008-09-03T16:08:00.015+10:00

Since we've been looking at poetry here just lately, I'll refer everyone also to Writer's Resource Center (aka PoeWar) where this year's annual game, 30 Poems in 30 Days, is now running during September. You can join in with your own poems in response to the prompts if you like (it's not too late!) either on the main site or by joining a more private workshop-type group.

Articles
AND, in conjunction with this, John Hewitt who runs the site is also posting some very good articles on poetry and the writing thereof.

And that's not all
If you haven't discovered Poewar yet, it's worth checking out for information on other kinds of writing besides poetry, and for commercial opportunities.

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

What Is A Poem? by DE Navarro

2008-08-18T16:21:00.017+10:00

Reprinted with permission from NavWorks Press Poetry Forum on MySpace. When I saw this post I thought it interesting, and it dovetailed so beautifully with our last blog post here that I asked permission to use it, which was graciously granted. – Rosemary (WordsFlow Facilitator).

***********************************************************************

I could write a novel explaining what a poem is to me. The possibilities are vast. The poet gives the poem life in the way the words sustain it with a beat and pace all its own, unequalled in prose. A poem is. [PROSE]

===================

Poetry

I could write a novel
explaining what a poem is
to me.
The possibilites are vast.
The poet gives the poem life
in the way the words sustain it
with a beat and pace all its own,
unequalled in prose.
A poem is.

[POETRY]

===================

Not a single word is different between the prose and poetry shown above. What then makes the second item a poem?

Technically, when I departed from the required rules and structure of prose, I MADE my words into a poem. I used language in a way that was not prose to make my poem come into existence.

Is it a good poem? NO! It is, indeed, a lousy poem. Its only claim to being poetry is that I used line breaks to emphasize word groupings.

You have to admit, however, that it reads differently than the prose even though the words are exactly the same. This is because the line breaks gave the words and phrases different emphasis.

So, the absolute most basic definition of poetry can be: when words are used and structured in a manner apart from the requirements of prose.

Now, with a basic application of some poetic technique, let's transform this into a better poem.

A Poem Is

So vast in its potentialities,
I might write a novel
of its unimaginable intricacies,
of its departure from
prosaic rank and file,
word-art charged
and transformed
with its own life-energy
given the right to dance
with its own beat,
at its own pace,
in its own way
greeting many minds
living in hearts and souls.

Look at the difference a little poetic technique makes. I took the last sentence of the prose and made it the title and it flowed beautifully into the first line of the poem so that it is almost a pretext to it, which is one of the types of titles often used in poetry.

I took the concepts explained in the prose and spent some time mentally exploring them and thinking them through. Why could I write a novel about a poem? Because the possibilities are vast and extensive, the potentiality of a poem is incredible, almost unimaginable. A well crafted poem can be so intricate that multiple readings will not reveal all the goodies.

Prose is like a well arranged army in formation, marching to the cadence of the rules of prose, while poetry frees itself of this formation and dances (much more freedom) with its own beat and at its own pace in its own way and manner, uniquely structured or in free form, to capture a greater beauty than mere prose.

It's like the poet takes that rank and file prose army, separates it out, chooses particular members, and arranges groupings in the way he or she sees fit. The poet then choreographs its steps and paces, and sends it off to dance on its own, giving it its own rights and authorities and its own life.

I boiled down the thoughts and concepts of the prosaic logic and then put them together in a structure that developed itself out of the content and my heart's desire.

It is important to recognize that poetry uses poetic technique but the flow and compilation of it is from the heart. The poet must write from the heart.

As I formed the poem, I added some assonance with the short "i" sounds in line 3 (might write is actually an internal rhyme) and added the end rhyme of line 1 and 3 (potentialities / intricacies).

I added the long "a" sounds of line 4 (prosaic rank). Also, prosaic rank and file becomes an allusion of sorts to the rigors and conformed discipline of a marching army, though the word army is never used, so the metaphor (comparison) itself is implied.

Two lines later I capitalized on the army metaphor. Since rank and file implies conformity, I came out and overtly stated an opposite to conformity, that a poem is transformed.

Then lines 10, 11, and 12 are formed as a repetitive trio, giving them a unique rhythmic flow that stands out from the rest of the poem. Being short phrases ending in commas, they hold the poem back slightly in anticipation of the final lines: greeting many minds / living in hearts and souls.

As people read the poem it "greets" their mind. But as they think on it and read it again and again, it sinks deeper. Where a poem "lives" is in the hearts and souls of those who appreciate it, learn from it, grow by it, are empowered by it, entertained by it, enriched by it, or otherwise impacted.

By applying poetic technique and adorning the poem with some simple sound patterns, I transformed this poem from the conforming standards of simple prose to the wild liberty of poetic expression.

Now remember, these poetic techniques were not applied in some stuffy, calculating, methodical way. As the poet, I interacted with my material and began to form the poem by letting the words, thoughts, and ideas flow out of my heart. I then monopolized on the natural patterns present.

I have practiced these techniques often and they are a part of the repertoire of my heart, so as I interacted with my poem I naturally saw ways of tweaking certain words and phrases to add sound techniques, ways to use different words for better imagery, or ways to add new concepts that develop metaphors or add allusions, or ways to change the pace, beat, or flow.

As poets, all this comes out of our hearts. See why it is important for us to practice our craft? We read, observe, experience, and write, and write, and write. As we practice and discover techniques, they become part of our available arsenal of poetic tools, and they find their way into our poetry more and more as a natural flow out of our hearts.

As we begin to grow in certain techniques, they will often come out contrived, some of our rhymes will be forced, our metric beats will have stutters, our metaphors may seem hokey, or our allusions come off ostentatiously, or any other of a number of "amateurish" indicators.

So what? That is how we grow. I have scrapped so much of my early work in poetry, it would make most cringe. I have literally thrown away hundreds of poems. The few that survived out of my early years I have tweaked to remove the amateurish elements. The rest have survived as bits and pieces in new, better poetry.

We are poets, artists, we grow and get better at our craft with practice. Practice is born out of effort applied through time. That means, writing, writing, and more writing.

Okay, off the soap box and back to poetry, what it is. Considering our basic definition and adding the idea that poetry uses charged language that is given additional power by use of poetic technique and sound, here is what I believe to be a wonderfully open-ended, all-encompassing, basic definition of poetry:

poetry - words used and structured in a manner apart from the requirements of prose and charged with additional power by way of poetic technique and/or pleasing sound patterns

I wrote the above poem as an exercise just to illustrate the making of poetry and to explore a possible and plausible definition of it.

The poem may not be a great poem, and may never find itself into my portfolio, but it was good for illustrative and teaching purposes here today.

I hope you enjoyed it.

© Copyright 2007 NavWorks Press and DE Navarro. All rights reserved.

How Do You Tell the Difference between Poetry and Prose?

2008-07-25T11:35:00.015+10:00

‘How do you tell the difference between poetry and prose, unless it rhymes?’ asked a group member, confessing that he gets confused, particularly when it comes to free verse.

A fair question. It does get confusing, and these days the boundaries are blurring more and more. We have distinctions such as prose poetry and poetic prose. It’s even more confusing that the word “poetry” is used in different ways. It can mean verse as distinct from prose, or it can mean something especially beautiful or artistic, as in, “That [piece of music / dance performance / item in nature /etc.] is pure poetry!” Even when it comes to verse, a distinction is made between poetry and doggerel. “Good” poetry is described as poetry; “bad” poetry is considered not to deserve the name: “That’s not poetry!” Or you can think about it in the way someone recently suggested to me, “Poetry’s like a fine wine.” So bad poetry, then, would be like rotgut?

Well, let’s leave questions of good and bad for now, and just explore the difference between poetry and prose in the sense of different genres. I still like the legendary (and perhaps mythical) schoolboy definition: “Poetry is that stuff where the lines don’t go right to the end of the page.” It’s a good starting point anyway. But there needs to be something more to make it poetry and not just chopped-up prose. My answer to the question, boiled right down, is …

Patterns

Poetry involves patterning. Regular rhyme schemes and metres are patterns, and it’s easy to see that. You can count the number of beats to a line, or map the arrangement of rhymes.

Free verse doesn’t hold to a regular metric pattern, but when I read some aloud to the group and asked them what made it poetry, they could hear it: “Rhythm!”
This does involve reading the poem as it’s written on the page, taking note of pauses and punctuation. But also, when I read them one particular piece that way, doing my best to read it as poetry, they could hear that it wasn’t. The rhythm – or lack of – simply didn’t work as verse. “That’s chopped up prose,” they insisted, and I had to agree. (It would be helpful to give the example here, but I don’t want to risk publicly offending the writer!) It’s true that good prose writing also employs rhythm, but the rhythm of a prose sentence works somewhat differently.

Similarly with rhyme – in free verse it can happen in looser ways than in more formal verse. There may be “slant rhymes” of various kinds, or an echo effect of particular sounds repeated even more irregularly. Of course, some free verse doesn’t use rhyme at all. However the music of the words – the way the sounds work together, and the effect they have in creating mood – is still, usually, taken into consideration. (And incidentally, even formal poetry doesn’t always rhyme. Blank verse, which Shakespeare made famous, was specifically NON-rhyming iambic pentameter.)

Sound is not the only kind of patterning. Some poems work instead on visual patterns such as a harmonious, balanced arrangement of line lengths. There might be a certain number of lines per verse, or a certain average length of line. Some have patterns of syllable counts, per line or verse. Shape poetry makes very specific visual patterns and concrete poetry takes that even further.

Now let’s get back to the “fine wine” analogy. I don’t really want to get into notions of “good” or “bad” verse, but I do think poetry often uses a more heightened language than prose. Every element of a poem, even a space between words, has purpose, is essential. Prose, I think, can be more discursive. But here I’m treading on thin ice, as some prose may use heightened language and some poems may be deliberately discursive.

Prose poems / poetic prose

I think it’s fair to say that prose poetry abandons only one feature of poetry: the importance of where the lines begin and end. In a poem, that matters; it’s crucial. In a prose poem, the piece works no matter how it’s set. (Which might be said of prose too, except you wouldn’t normally wish to set a piece of prose as verse in any case.) Here I think I have to use examples. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck contains some of the most poetic prose I can think of. Check this excerpt!

Margaret Atwood, in a book called True Stories: Poems, includes the following:

My friend called me on the telephone and said, I’m going to kill myself. Why? I said. He’s left me, she said, I have nothing to live for. All right, I said, how are you going to do it? Pills? No, she said, that would make me sick. If it doesn’t work, I mean. I can’t stand having my stomach pumped out, it’s humiliating. Well, a gun then, I said. Think of the mess, she said. It’s indelible, and I hate loud noises. Hanging, I said. You look so awful, she said. You could say the same of drowning, I said. Well, I guess that’s that, she said, but what am I going to do, now that he’s left me and I have nothing to live for? Who told you it has to be for anything? I said. But were you living for him when he was there? No, she said, I was living in spite of him, I was living against him. Then you should say, I have nothing to live against, I said. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? she said. I said No.

There’s a very fine difference between that and a piece of prose! The language might at first glance seem prosaic, consisting as it does of quite plain, ordinary words. It‘s not so much heightened as tightened. However, if you read the piece aloud, you can hear the rhythm building in a non-prosey way. The beautiful rhythms of Steinbeck, though, are the rhythms of prose. I hope you can hear this, because otherwise it’s a bit like trying to explain the finer points of music to someone tone-deaf. Like an ear for music, one also needs an ear for poetry. Luckily, both can be developed.

What does poetry do?

Another way to examine the question is to ask what poetry does, as dinstinct from prose. It might seem a strange question, considering that there are so many different kinds of prose with different functions – fiction, drama, and non-fiction of all kinds: journalism, essays, how-to manuals and so on. And there are exceptions to every rule, including the one I’m about to formulate. Nevertheless, I think that poetry gets to the essence of things, or at least attempts to. An unsubstantiated assertion! What do you think?

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

Relationships

2008-05-26T10:34:00.007+10:00

By Tahlia

Relationships
Re
In regards to
Interpersonal communication
Jumbled, mumbled
What did you say?

Relationships
Re
Late
Past the prescribed time
Rushing - no time to waste
Heart pounding
But it's never too late.

Relationships
Re
Late
On
Joined
Connected between
Touching and feeling
No, it's not a dream.

Relationships
Re
Late
On
Ships
Some pass in the night
Others work silently side by side
Now tell me truly
What is your delight?

The Murray River

2008-05-22T17:01:00.005+10:00

By Sally Irwin

Irrigation
is sucking it dry.
Black sulphuric acid,
toxic metals and sludge,
pH below 5 –
arsenic wastelands spread.

It’s spreading
further than we know
Where the Murray
meets the ocean,
no bird life thrives.
It’s choked at the mouth.

Pelicans and fairy terns
are all in decline.
Trees are dying.
Each passing day,
more and more water
slips away.

Women of Peace (for Charito)

2008-05-22T12:30:00.009+10:00

By Eddie Blatt

It was the early eighties and I had befriended a Filipino Catholic nun who was very much involved in helping those in the Philippines adversely affected by the dictatorial Marcos regime. She invited me to stay for a weekend in a small flat in her nunnery that had been put aside for visitors. I had just split up with my then wife and took the opportunity for much-needed solitude and contemplation. I wanted to repay her for her kindness, so although I did not share her beliefs I wrote the following poem as if I was seeing things through her eyes.

Women of peace come take my hand,
through God help me to understand
the inner pain that will not rest;
the ball and chain within my breast.

Women of love show me the way
to free myself from want each day;
to find the Lord through hope and prayer,
through kindly deeds and tender care.

Women of joy please share my sorrow
for broken lives that fall tomorrow;
for every soul that's lost its way,
for every dream in disarray.

Women of peace, come take my hand
and lead me to the promised land,
where lion and lamb are born together,
and you and I can rest forever.

The Practical Writer

2008-05-12T21:03:00.014+10:00

At our last WordsFlow meeting, talk turned to things the local Council is allowing to happen which will be bad for the environment. It seems that many people in the community feel resigned and helpless, so they don't speak up about these issues.

As writers, though, we have a tool readily available: our ability to express ourselves by the written word. Yes, we could write impassioned poems, songs, stories and scripts that might live forever and influence many people ... or not. But we are also the ones who can write the most powerful letters to our local papers. We have the skills to write them so well that they are likely to be chosen for publication!

Even when it seems that a decision affecting the community is fait accomplit, I think it's still worth speaking out – in writing. Perhaps others will be inspired to do likewise. Even if a decision is not reversed, perhaps 'they' will think twice before making a similar one in future.

Particularly if we use the power of the written word to lobby the appropriate Council person too! One member of the group said she kept emailing the person she thought most directly concerned with environmental issues. When he didn't respond the first time, she started sending him the same email every fortnight, with a note: I wish you would reply to this! Pretty soon he did, and directed her to the person responsible for that area of concern. No doubt she will continue to email that person too, if they are slow to respond!

It reminds me of my favourite bumper sticker (now the slogan for this blog):

WRITERS have the last word.

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

What We've Been Up To Lately

2008-05-09T16:31:00.016+10:00

Zines

We've just produced yet another zine. We have decided to do them bi-monthly from now on, to give ourselves a bit more time to get them together.

The next one, in the planning stages, will be for children. We're creating it specifically for children in our two local hospitals, to enliven their time there – but it will be suitable for any youngsters. The hospitals concerned are thrilled with this initiative, which came not from me but from the group. I think it might have been Margaret who first suggested it, but the whole group was instantly enthusiastic.

Writing exercise

Dinah, a member of our group, came up with a wonderful exercise recently. She invited us to draw a map of a real or imaginary country and write about a journey there, either to or within the country. We were to include some excitement and/or a disaster to be overcome. And we were to answer the questions: Who? Where? When? How? Why?

It was an amazingly productive exercise – except that, with our usual time limit, some people got so absorbed in creating the map that they didn't leave themselves much writing time! We produced stories, or beginnings of stories, which we felt we'd like to continue with later.

From the horse's mouth

Angela, the wonderful Coordinator of Pottsville Beach Neighbourhood Centre, asked me today how WordsFlow is going. So I thought I'd ask the participants to answer that question. These are the answers they called out as I jotted them down:

Stimulating
We love Fridays
Brain-activating
Friendship-building
Laughter-generating
We're a community
Skills-developing
Self-determining
We even sing during tea-breaks!

It's my philosophy that learning happens best in an atmosphere of laughter.

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

The You I Know

2008-04-14T09:02:00.016+10:00

By Eddie Blatt

Mountains white bathed in flakes of snow,
Aren't as pretty as the you I know;
And trees so green, so tall and so lean,
Can't surpass the beauty in you that I've seen.

© Eddie Blatt 2008