Tuesday Poem - Adlestrop - Edward Thomas

Yes. I remember Adlestrop -

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop – only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that moment a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

This Tuesday I will go for the bleeding, blinding obvious and post one of my favourite poems. I typed it out and as I did I pondered how the poet had used his devices. The capital letter at the beginning of the line, when he used a run on and when he didn't. And his rhymes. Just your usual sort of rhyme – afternoon/June came/name dry/sky until he hits you with mistier/Gloucestershire.

http://poemsandprose.blog.co.uk/2006/03/08/adlestrop~623132/

Couple of pics of Adlestrop then and now. It is one of those places to which I would like to make a pilgrimage. This poem gave me the idea of taking a place and 'glamorising' it by taking a poetic snapshot of it. To bring it into another sort of existence. I think the reason I like this poem so much is because it is archival. I am a sucker for delving in the archives. But although it jerks and flickers a little, and it is very much of its time, I can also be right there in that moment so long ago. I can't find out when it was written but it was pre 1917, when Edward Thomas was killed in action at the Battle of Arras (at the age of 37 if I remember right). I feel as if I know this poem completely, in all its intents. But the only thing I can't know is how I would have reacted to it if I had read it when it was first written. Would it have seemed odd and fey to me, would it have passed over my head or under my radar? One other thing - if you consider, as I do, a poem to be a conversation with other poems, then I am continually conversing with this poem. I reference it a lot. The spreading soundscape, the atonal rhyme. And in a recent poem about the train station called Alamein here in Melbourne, I go so far as to write - “I was the only person who got off here. And nobody got on.” A direct homage. But I wonder how many people know this poem these days. I wonder if anyone will get it. Anyway, this poem is very close to my heart and it emboldens me every time I read it.

Tuesday Poem - Chop! - by Steve Smart

Chop!

This is an axe

I’m not going to hurt you

just need to chop some wood

it’s cold out tonight

This is a fire

Small, slow burning

stop poking at it

it’ll burn all by itself

This is a chimney

The fire is going now

but there’s too much smoke

the room is filling up, choking

This is a bucket

The fire is spreading out of control

must find water

before skin begins to melt

This is relief

Not too cold, not too hot

the porridge is cooking nicely

come inside, get warm –

stop apologising

every time you don’t save the world

This poem is a hint

of things to come

Steve Smart is yet another Melbourne poet – we have such a lot of poets in Melbourne- (lucky us) – and I think it would be fair to describe him as a 'performance poet'. Not that there is anything wrong with that, to quote Seinfeld. I heard him read this poem in last year's final of Poetry Idol at Federation Square and liked it loads. Steve is a mover and a shaker and an instigator and a begetter, the Overload Festival is a brain child of his – with a little bit of help from his friends. To quote the Beatles. These days he is one of the conveners of the long-running Dan poetry readings, and he tours, he paints nails, he writes poetry, he slams, he is a true believer.

Tuesday Poem - The Ministry of Going In by Christine Paice

The Ministry of Going In

This is what happens

I go in

sweep the floor

clear the dishes

interview the Secretary of State over a flat white

and lamington

and ask about Afghanistan and post modern democracy

in a political vacuum

I forget to ask if she wants sugar with that

This is what happens

I go in

sweep the floor

stack plates

dry cutlery

make sure the knives

are really really shiny

and ask the Minister for Dreaming

if I need a new paradigm to contain my thoughts

There was a knife once that was not

as shiny as the others

it was held up as an example

of what can happen

if you’re careless

an unclean knife

half a second and your whole life changes

I go in

sweep the floor

foam the milk

and wonder

if there is too much importance

placed on the size of a take away cup

milk jugs are full

of constant fluctuations

and I ask the Minister for Intermittently Good Behaviour

how he is adjusting to the global downturn in fortune cookies

he says there is always another biscuit to be had

This is what happens

sometimes I don’t go in

I run in the wind

a gory phantom with a large

coconut shell necklace

I say gory on account of the beetroot I have peeled

and I ask the Minister for Outsized Accessories

if I have gone too far

in my quest and she says

she would wear that far mountain and two intertwined planets

if she could get them round her bloody neck

This is what happens

I go in

there are people

waiting at the counter

I take one not-so-shiny-as-it-should-have-been knife

and excise my bad intentions

and I ask the Minister for Procrastination

is it always as bad as they say

he says not if you catch it in time and do something about it

This is what happened

you went in

made muffins

and cappuccinos

ordered milk and bread

and did something about it

but didn’t catch it in time

you asked a doctor what the results were

and he said you’d better come in

You went in

swinging your wooden spoon

like a pendulum

backwards and forwards

into the dark

big black crow cleared his throat

and crow ordered fast

before you had time

to catch your breath

crow caught it for you

You and crow

riding a spoon

into the cold mysterious night

crow’s fierce black wings

beating the sky

and I asked the Minister For Last Things if it was true

that after you die you turn into a star

and he said he was looking into it

This is what happens

I go in

water has flooded

from the fridge

I swim round tables

like a dolphin

and I ask the Minister for New Beginnings

what she does when waves threaten to engulf her

and everyday feels strange

she says take a larger boat and throw your guilt over the side

This is what happens

I go in

my hair the shape

of a dolphin’s fin

someone hums the music from Jaws

and I ask the Minister for Psychic Disinformation

how many times he has blamed poltergeists for his own bad temper

and he says I am in the wrong film

This is what happens

I go in

sweep floor

rearrange shelving

stare at your photo

and stack my own

small bones

in with the coffee cups

I get everything right

it is one of those rare sparkling days

and I ask the Minister for Myself when I was last elected.

I was knocked out and blown away by this poem when I read it on line after it had won the Josephine Ulrick Prize. Such wit, such depth, such a bobby dazzler. Chrissy Paice has a particular and inimitable voice and I think in this poem her voice is almost stentorian.

I first met Chrissy when I mentored her through the South Coast Writers Centre and was thrilled to bits to find she actually didn't need a mentor. Well, I could suggest a few bits of marketing etc to her, and we did a modicum of fine tuning if I remember right, but good heavens what a find. I was thrilled to bits.

Her first book, Mad Oaks, has been sold out but contact her if you would like to get a copy of her second book, Staring At The Aral Sea.

chrispaice@aapt.net.au

Christine Paice is a poet and writer. She has published two collections of poetry, Mad Oaks and Staring At The Aral Sea (Ginninderra Press). Her poetry has been read on ABC Radio National and Jazz Alive, Vox FM radio, and published in the UK, and the USA. Her poetry has also been in Best Australian Poems 2004, 2005, and 2008. In 2009 she won the national Josephine Ulrick Poetry Prize. Her children’s book, The Great Rock Whale, (Lothian) was published April 2009.

Tuesday Poem - Five Short Ones by Maurice McNamara

Five Short Ones by Maurice McNamara

milk spills in the keyboard

computer

goes to sleep

in our dry country

rain on the roof

sounds like religion

drugs – a slow war

mostly carried out

lying down

in your arms

I wonder why I said that

stupid thing

you drive around

the block

waiting for me

to grow up

Maurice is a dear friend and a big part part of the Melbourne scene. In many ways he is the scene. If you want an insouciant MC with allsorts up his sleeve, ask Maurice. I have heard him stress, though, that he is not an unbreakable funboy. There is an ongoing discussion in Melbers about what is a haiku. This has often been sidestepped by dubbing a certain sort of work rooku. I would pick Maurice is an exponent of rooku, although he sometimes calls them short ones. As they are short I have posted five. It's hardly worth clicking on a blog for just the one. Though sometimes it might be.

http://anotherlostshark.com/2009/08/20/qpf-spotlight-18-maurice-mcnamara/

http://www.smallchangepress.com.au/titles.htm

Maurice McNamara lives in Melbourne. His book, Half-Hour Country was published by Small Change Press in 2009. 'Half history teacher, half Warhol, touch of Antique Roadshow. '

Tuesday Poem - Parsley by Chris Mansell

 

Parsley

so I go outside

and pick parsley

to make tabouli

the burghul is

inside soaking

and the parsley

makes my hands

fresh and taste like

truth

this is the closest

I can get

to describe it

and with truth

on my hands

I come inside

and think of hurt

how I cut you off so

brutally and

not wanting it

at all and you, no doubt,

angry and I no doubt

remorseful I loved you

in my own way

(always the worst

way to love)

I couldn’t take

- any more -

your attempts

to captivate and

educate but

I wanted your

sweet lips your

sweet body

that look that comes

out of the corner

of your eye

when you

make a joke

I wash the parsley

and pull the stalks off

take the truth

into my mouth

it makes

the breath fresh

they say but

my heart

still stinks

Here is another poem by Chris Mansell who writes so many irresistible poems. I heard her read this one when she was featuring at The Dan and, goodness me, it was powerful. If you get a chance to hear her read, well, I won't say crawl over broken glass to get there, but definitely make a bit of an effort.

http://members.ozemail.com.au/~writerslink/Chris_Mansell/Chris_Mansell_Home.html


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